fcp 


THE  ONE-FOOTED  PAIRY  AND  OTHER 
STORIES.  Illustrated. 

JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY. 

THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA.  With  frontis 
piece. 

ROSE  MacLEOD.    With  frontispiece. 

THE  COUNTY  ROAD. 

THE  COURT  OF  LOVE. 

PARADISE. 

HIGH  NOON. 

THE  MANNERINGS. 

MARGARET  WARRENER. 

MEADOW  GRASS.  Tales  of  New  England 
Life. 

TIVERTON  TALES. 

THE  DAY  OF  HIS  YOUTH. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YOJIK 


T  I  V  E  R  T  O  N 
TALES 


BY 


ALICE   BROWN 


BOSTON    AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 
prejfa  Cambridge 


0 


COPYRIGHT,    1899,    BY  ALICH   BROWN 
ALL  RIGHTS    RESERVED 


TO  M.  H.  R. 

A  MASTER   MAGICIAN 


CONTENTS 

?AGB 

DOORYARDS            I 

A  MARCH  WIND   ........  14 

->   THE  MORTUARY  CHEST 52 

HORN-O'-THE-MOON 98 

A  STOLEN  FESTIVAL 129 

A  LAST  ASSEMBLING     .               150 

THE  WAY  OF  PEACE         .       .       .       .       .       .  175 

THE  EXPERIENCE  OF  HANNAH  PRIME       .       .       .  203 

HONEY  AND  MYRRH  .              212 

-1  A.  SECOND  MARRIAGE 230 

THE  FLAT-IRON  LOT         ......  263 

THE  END  OF  ALL  LIVING 319 


TIVERTON   TALES 


DOCKYARDS' ' 


TIVERTON  has  breezy,  upland  roads,  and 
damp,  sweet  valleys ;  but  should  you  tarry 
there  a  summer  long,  you  might  find  it  wasteful 
to  take  many  excursions  abroad.  For,  having 
once  received  the  freedom  of  family  living,  you 
will  own  yourself  disinclined  to  get  beyond 
dooryards,  those  outer  courts  of  domesticity. 
Homely  joys  spill  over  into  them,  and,  when 
children  are  afoot,  surge  and  riot  there.  In 
them  do  the  common  occupations  of  life  find 
niche  and  channel.  While  bright  weather  holds, 
we  wash  out  of  doors  on  a  Monday  morning, 
the  wash-bench  in  the  solid  block  of  shadow 
thrown  by  the  house.  We  churn  there,  also, 
at  the  hour  when  Sweet-Breath,  the  cow,  goes 
afield,  modestly  unconscious  of  her  own  sover 
eignty  over  the  time.  There  are  all  the  vary 
ing  fortunes  of  butter-making  recorded.  Some 
times  it  comes  merrily  to  the  tune  of 

"  Come,  butter,  come  ! 
Peter  stands  a-waiting  at  the  gate, 
Waiting  for  his  butter-cake. 
Come,  butter,  come !  " 


2  TIVERTON  TALES 

chanted  in  time  with  the  dasher ;  again  it  doth 
willfully  refuse,  and  then,  lest  it  be  too  cool, 
we  contribute  a  dash  of  hot  water,  or  too  hot, 
and  we  lend  it  a  dash  of  cold.  Or  we  toss  in  a 
magical  handful  of  salt,  to  encourage  it.  Pos 
sibly,  if  we  be  not  the  thriftiest  of  household 
ers,  we  feec  the  hens  here  in  the  yard,  and  then 
"shoo  "  tnem  away,  when  they  would  fain  take 
profligate  dust-baths  under  the  syringa,  leaving 
unsightly  hollows.  But  however,  and  with  what 
complexion,  our  dooryards  may  face  the  later 
year,  they  begin  it  with  purification.  Here  are 
they  an  unfailing  index  of  the  severer  virtues  ; 
for,  in  Tiverton,  there  is  no  housewife  who,  in 
her  spring  cleaning,  omits  to  set  in  order  this 
outer  pale  of  the  temple.  Long  before  the 
merry  months  are  well  under  way,  or  the  cows 
go  kicking  up  their  heels  to  pasture,  or  plants 
are  taken  from  the  south  window  and  clapped 
into  chilly  ground,  orderly  passions  begin  to 
riot  within  us,  and  we  "  clear  up  "  our  yards. 
We  gather  stray  chips,  and  pieces  of  bone 
brought  in  by  the  scavenger  dog,  who  sits  now 
with  his  tail  tucked  under  him,  oblivious  of 
such  vagrom  ways.  We  rake  the  grass,  and 
then,  gilding  refined  gold,  we  sweep  it.  There 
is  a  tradition  that  Miss  Lois  May  once  went  to 
the  length  of  trimming  her  grass  about  the 
doorstone  and  clothes-pole  with  embroidery 
scissors  ;  but  that  was  a  too-hasty  encomium 
bestowed  by  a  widower  whom  she  rejected 


DOORYARDS  3 

next  week,  and  who  qualified  his  statement  by 
saying  they  were  pruning-shears. 

After  this  preliminary  skirmishing  arises 
much  anxious  inspection  of  ancient  shrubs  and 
the  faithful  among  old-fashioned  plants,  to  see 
whether  they  have  "  stood  the  winter."  The 
fresh,  brown  "  piny "  heads  are  brooded  over 
with  a  motherly  care ;  wormwood  roots  are 
loosened,  and  the  horse-radish  plant  is  given  a 
thrifty  touch.  There  is  more  than  the  delight 
of  occupation  in  thus  stirring  the  wheels  of 
the  year.  We  are  Nature's  poor  handmaidens, 
and  our  labor  gives  us  joy. 

But  sweet  as  these  homespun  spots  can 
make  themselves,  in  their  mixture  of  thrift  and 
prodigality,  they  are  dearer  than  ever  at  the 
points  where  they  register  family  traits,  and  so 
touch  the  humanity  of  us  all.  Here  is  im 
printed  the  story  of  the  man  who  owns  the 
farm,  that  of  the  father  who  inherited  it,  and 
the  grandfather  who  reclaimed  it  from  waste ; 
here  have  they  and  their  womenkind  set  the 
foot  of  daily  living  and  traced  indelible  paths. 
They  have  left  here  the  marks  of  tragedy,  of 
pathos,  or  of  joy.  One  yard  has  a  level  bit  of 
grassless  ground  between  barn  and  pump,  and 
you  may  call  it  a  battlefield,  if  you  will,  since 
famine  and  desire  have  striven  there  together. 
Or,  if  you  choose  to  read  fine  meanings  into 
threadbare  things,  you  may  see  in  it  a  field  of 
the  cloth  of  gold,  where  simple  love  of  life  and 


4  TIVERTON   TALES 

childlike  pleasure  met  and  sparkled  for  no  eye 
to  see.  It  was  a  croquet  ground,  laid  out  in 
the  days  when  croquet  first  inundated  the  land, 
and  laid  out  by  a  woman.  This  was  Delia 
Smith,  the  mother  of  two  grave  children,  and 
the  wife  of  a  farmer  who  never  learned  to 
smile.  Eben  was  duller  than  the  ox  which 
ploughs  all  day  long  for  his  handful  of  hay 
at  night  and  his  heavy  slumber  ;  but  Delia, 
though  she  carried  her  end  of  the  yoke  with  a 
gallant  spirit,  had  dreams  and  desires  forever 
bursting  from  brown  shells,  only  to  live  a  mo 
ment  in  the  air,  and  then,  like  bubbles,  die. 
She  had  a  perpetual  appetite  for  joy.  When 
the  circus  came  to  town,  she  walked  miles  to 
see  the  procession  ;  and,  in  a  dream  of  satisfied 
delight,  dropped  potatoes  all  the  afternoon,  to 
make  up.  Once,  a  hand-organ  and  monkey 
strayed  that  way,  and  it  was  she  alone  who 
followed  them  ;  for  the  children  were  little, 
and  all  the  saner  house-mothers  contented 
themselves  with  leaning  over  the  gates  till  the 
wandering  train  had  passed.  But  Delia  drained 
her  draught  of  joy  to  the  dregs,  and  then  tilted 
her  cup  anew.  With  croquet  came  her  su- 
premest  joy,  —  one  that  leavened  her  days  till 
God  took  her,  somewhere,  we  hope,  where 
there  is  playtime.  Delia  had  no  money  to 
buy  a  croquet  set,  but  she  had  something  far 
better,  an  alert  and  undiscouraged  mind.  On 
one  dizzy  afternoon,  at  a  Fourth  of  July  picnic, 


DOORYARDS  5 

when  wickets  had  been  set  up  near  the  wood, 
she  had  played  with  the  minister,  and  beaten 
him.  The  game  opened  before  her  an  endless 
vista  of  delight.  She  saw  herself  perpetually 
knocking  red-striped  balls  through  an  eternity 
of  wickets ;  and  she  knew  that  here  was  the 
one  pastime  of  which  no  soul  could  tire.  After 
wards,  driving  home  with  her  husband  and  two 
children,  still  in  a  daze  of  satisfied  delight,  she 
murmured  absently:  — 

"  Wonder  how  much  they  cost  ? " 

"What?"  asked  Eben,  and  Delia  turned, 
flushed  scarlet,  and  replied  :  — 

"  Oh,  nothin'  !  " 

That  night,  she  lay  awake  for  one  rapt  hour, 
and  then  she  slept  the  sleep  of  conquerors.  In 
the  morning,  after  Eben  had  gone  safely  off  to 
work,  and  the  children  were  still  asleep,  she 
began  singing,  in  a  monotonous,  high  voice, 
and  took  her  way  out  of  doors.  She  always 
sang  at  moments  when  she  purposed  leaping 
the  bounds  of  domestic  custom.  Even  Eben 
had  learned  that,  dull  as  he  was.  If  he  heard 
that  guilty  crooning  from  the  buttery,  he  knew 
she  might  be  breaking  extra  eggs,  or  using 
more  sugar  than  was  conformable. 

"  What  you  doin'  of  ?  "  he  was  accustomed 
to  call.  But  Delia  never  answered,  and  he  did 
not  interfere.  The  question  was  a  necessary 
concession  to  marital  authority ;  he  had  no 
wish  to  curb  her  ways. 


6  TIVERTON   TALES 

Delia  scudded  about  the  yard  like  a  willful 
wind.  She  gathered  withes  from  a  waiting 
pile,  and  set  them  in  that  one  level  space  for 
wickets.  Then  she  took  a  handsaw,  and,  pale 
about  the  lips,  returned  to  the  house  and  to 
her  bedroom.  She  had  made  her  choice.  She 
was  sacrificing  old  associations  to  her  present 
need  ;  and,  one  after  another,  she  sawed  the 
ornamenting  balls  from  her  mother's  high-post 
bedstead.  Perhaps  the  one  element  of  tragedy 
lay  in  the  fact  that  Delia  was  no  mechanician, 
and  she  had  not  foreseen  that,  having  one  flat 
side,  her  balls  might  decline  to  roll.  But  that 
dismay  was  brief.  A  weaker  soul  would  have 
flinched  ;  to  Delia  it  was  a  futile  check,  a  peb 
ble  under  the  wave.  She  laid  her  balls  calmly 
aside.  Some  day  she  would  whittle  them  into 
shape  ;  for  there  were  always  coming  to  Delia 
days  full  of  roomy  leisure  and  large  content. 
Meanwhile  apples  would  serve  her  turn,  —  good 
alike  to  draw  a  weary  mind  out  of  its  channel 
or  teach  the  shape  of  spheres.  And  so,  with 
two  russets  for  balls  and  the  clothes-slice  for  a 
mallet  (the  heavy  sledge-hammer  having  failed), 
Delia  serenely,  yet  in  triumph,  played  her  first 
game  against  herself. 

"  Don't  you  drive  over  them  wickets  ! "  she 
called  imperiously,  when  Eben  came  up  from 
the  lot  in  his  dingle  cart. 

"  Them  what  ?  "  returned  he,  and  Delia  had 
to  go  out  to  explain.  He  looked  at  them 


DOORYARDS  7 

gravely;  hers  had  been  a  ragged  piece  of 
work. 

"  What  under  the  sun  'd  you  do  that  for  ?  " 
he  inquired.  "  The  young  ones  would  n't  turn 
their  hand  over  for 't.  They  ain't  big  enough." 

"Well,  I  be,"  said  Delia  briefly.  "Don't 
you  drive  over  'em." 

Eben  looked  at  her  and  then  at  his  path  to 
the  barn,  and  he  turned  his  horse  aside. 

Thereafter,  until  we  got  used  to  it,  we  found 
a  vivid  source  of  interest  in  seeing  Delia  play 
ing  croquet,  and  always  playing  alone.  That 
was  a  very  busy  summer,  because  the  famous 
drought  came  then,  and  water  had  to  be  car 
ried  for  weary  rods  from  spring  and  river. 
Sometimes  Delia  did  not  get  her  playtime  till 
three  in  the  afternoon,  sometimes  not  till  after 
dark ;  but  she  was  faithful  to  her  joy.  The 
croquet  ground  suffered  varying  fortunes.  It 
might  happen  that  the  balls  were  potatoes, 
when  apples  failed  to  be  in  season  ;  often  her 
wickets  broke,  and  stood  up  in  two  ragged 
horns.  Sometimes  one  fell  away  altogether, 
and  Delia,  like  the  planets,  kept  an  unseen 
track.  Once  or  twice,  the  mistaken  benevo 
lence  of  others  gave  her  real  distress.  The 
minister's  daughter,  noting  her  solitary  game, 
mistook  it  for  forlornness,  and,  in  the  warmth 
of  her  maiden  heart,  came  to  ask  if  she  might 
share.  It  was  a  timid  though  official  bene 
volence ;  but  Delia's  bright  eyes  grew  dark. 
She  clung  to  her  kitchen  chair. 


8  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  I  guess  I  won't,"  she  said,  and,  in  some 
dim  way,  everybody  began  to  understand  that 
this  was  but  an  intimate  and  solitary  joy. 
She  had  grown  so  used  to  spreading  her  ban 
quets  for  one  alone  that  she  was  frightened  at 
the  sight  of  other  cups  upon  the  board  ;  for 
although  loneliness  begins  in  pain,  by  and  by, 
perhaps,  it  creates  its  own  species  of  sad  and 
shy  content. 

Delia  did  not  have  a  long  life ;  and  that 
was  some  relief  to  us  who  were  not  altogether 
satisfied  with  her  outlook  here.  The  place 
she  left  need  not  be  always  desolate.  There 
was  a  good  maiden  sister  to  keep  the  house, 
and  Eben  and  the  children  would  be  but  briefly 
sorry.  They  could  recover  their  poise  ;  he 
with  the  health  of  a  simple  mind,  and  they 
as  children  will.  Yet  he  was  truly  stunned  by 
the  blow;  and  I  hoped,  on  the  day  of  the 
funeral,  that  he  did  not  see  what  I  did.  When 
we  went  out  to  get  our  horse  and  wagon,  I 
caught  my  foot  in  something  which  at  once 
gave  way.  I  looked  down  —  at  a  broken  wicket 
and  a  withered  apple  by  the  stake. 

Quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  town  is  a  door- 
yard  which,  in  my  own  mind,  at  least,  I  call  the 
traveling  garden.  Miss  Nancy,  its  presiding 
mistress,  is  the  victim  of  a  love  of  change ; 
and  since  she  may  not  wander  herself,  she 
transplants  shrubs  and  herbs  from  nook  to 
nook.  No  sooner  does  a  green  thing  get  safely 


DOORYARDS  9 

rooted  than  Miss  Nancy  snatches  it  up  and  sets 
it  elsewhere.  Her  yard  is  a  varying  pageant 
of  plants  in  all  stages  of  misfortune.  Here  is 
a  shrub,  with  faded  leaves,  torn  from  the  lap  of 
prosperity  in  a  well-sunned  corner  to  languish 
under  different  conditions.  There  stands  a 
hardy  bush,  shrinking,  one  might  guess,  under 
all  its  bravery  of  new  spring  green,  from  the 
premonition  that  Miss  Nancy  may  move  it  to 
morrow.  Even  the  ladies'-delights  have  their 
months  of  garish  prosperity,  wherein  they 
sicken  like  country  maids ;  for  no  sooner  do 
they  get  their  little  feet  settled  in  a  dark,  still 
corner  than  they  are  summoned  out  of  it,  to 
sunlight  bright  and  strong.  Miss  Nancy  lives 
with  a  bedridden  father,  who  has  grown  peevish 
through  long  patience ;  can  it  be  that  slow, 
senile  decay  which  has  roused  in  her  a  fierce 
impatience  against  the  sluggishness  of  life,  and 
that  she  hurries  her  plants  into  motion  because 
she  herself  must  halt  ?  Her  father  does  not 
theorize  about  it.  He  says,  "Nancy  never  has 
no  luck  with  plants."  And  that,  indeed,  is 
true. 

There  is  another  dooryard  with  its  infallible 
index  finger  pointing  to  tell  a  tale.  You  can 
scarcely  thread  your  way  through  it  for  vehicles 
of  all  sorts  congregated  there  to  undergo  slow 
decomposition  at  the  hands  of  wind  and  wea 
ther.  This  farmer  is  a  tradesman  by  nature, 
and  though,  for  thrift's  sake,  his  fields  must  be 


io  TIVERTON   TALES 

tilled,  he  is  yet  inwardly  constrained  to  keep 
on  buying  and  selling,  albeit  to  no  purpose. 
He  is  everlastingly  swapping  and  bargaining, 
giving  play  to  a  faculty  which  might,  in  its 
legitimate  place,  have  worked  out  the  definite 
and  tangible,  but  which  now  goes  automatically 
clicking  on  under  vain  conditions.  The  house, 
too,  is  overrun  with  useless  articles,  presently 
to  be  exchanged  for  others  as  unavailing,  and 
in  the  farmer's  pocket  ticks  a  watch  which 
to-morrow  will  replace  with  another  more  prob 
lematic  still.  But  in  the  yard  are  the  undis- 
putable  evidences  of  his  wild  unthrift.  Old 
rusty  mowing-machines,  buggies  with  torn  and 
flapping  canvas,  sleighs  ready  to  yawn  at  every 
crack,  all  are  here  :  poor  relations  in  a  broken- 
down  family.  But  children  love  this  yard. 
They  come,  hand  in  hand,  with  a  timid  confi 
dence  in  their  right,  and  ask  at  the  back  door 
for  the  privilege  of  playing  in  it.  They  take 
long,  entrancing  journeys  in  the  mouldy  old 
chaise  ;  they  endure  Siberian  nights  of  sleigh 
ing,  and  throw  out  their  helpless  dolls  to  the 
pursuing  wolves ;  or  the  more  mercantile- 
minded  among  the  boys  mount  a  three-wheeled 
express  wagon,  and  drive  noisily  away  to  traffic 
upon  the  road.  This,  in  its  dramatic  possibil 
ities,  is  not  a  yard  to  be  despised. 

Not  far  away  are  two  neighboring  houses 
once  held  in  affectionate  communion  by  a 
straight  path  through  the  clover  and  a  gap  in 


DOORYARDS  II 

the  wall.  This  was  the  road  to  much  friendly 
gossip,  and  there  were  few  bright  days  which 
did  not  find  two  matrons  met  at  the  wall,  their 
heads  together  over  some  amiable  yarn.  But 
now  one  house  is  closed,  its  windows  boarded 
up,  like  eyes  shut  down  forever,  and  the  grass 
has  grown  over  the  little  path  :  a  line  erased, 
perhaps  never  to  be  renewed.  It  is  easier  to 
wipe  out  a  story  from  nature  than  to  wipe  it 
from  the  heart ;  and  these  mutilated  pages  of 
the  outer  life  perpetually  renew  in  us  the  pangs 
of  loss  and  grief. 

But  not  all  our  dooryard  reminiscences  are 
instinct  with  pain.  Do  I  not  remember  one 
swept  and  garnished  plot,  never  defiled  by 
weed  or  disordered  with  ornamental  plants, 
where  stood  old  Deacon  Pitts,  upon  an  historic 
day,  and  woke  the  echoes  with  a  herald's  joy? 
Deacon  Pitts  had  the  ghoulish  delight  of  the 
ennuied  country  mind  in  funerals  and  the  mor 
tality  of  man  ;  and  this  morning  the  butcher 
had  brought  him  news  of  death  in  a  neigh 
boring  town.  The  butcher  had  gone  by,  and 
I  was  going  ;  but  Deacon  Pitts  stood  there, 
dramatically  intent  upon  his  mournful  morsel. 
I  judged  that  he  was  pondering  on  the  pos 
sibility  of  attending  the  funeral  without  the 
waste  of  too  much  precious  time  now  due  the 
crops.  Suddenly,  as  he  turned  back  toward 
the  house,  bearing  a  pan  of  liver,  his  pondering 
eye  caught  sight  of  his  aged  wife  toiling  across 


«  TIVERTON  TALES 

the  fields,  laden  with  pennyroyal.  He  set  the 
pan  down  hastily  —  yea,  even  before  the  ad 
vancing  cat!  — and  made  a  trumpet  of  his 
hands. 

"  Sarah  !  "  he  called  piercingly.  "  Sarah  ! 
Mr.  Amasa  Blake's  passed  away  !  Died  yes 
terday  ! " 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  was  present  at 
that  funeral,  but  it  would  be  strange  if  he 
were  not ;  for  time  and  tide  both  served  him, 
and  he  was  always  on  the  spot.  Indeed,  one 
day  he  reached  a  house  of  mourning  in  such 
season  that  he  found  the  rooms  quite  empty, 
and  was  forced  to  wait  until  the  bereaved 
family  should  assemble.  There  they  sat,  he 
and  his  wife,  a  portentous  couple  in  their  dead 
black  and  anticipatory  gloom,  until  even  their 
patience  had  well-nigh  fled.  And  then  an 
arriving  mourner  overheard  the  deacon,  as  he 
bent  forward  and  challenged  his  wife  in  a  sus 
picious  and  discouraged  whisper  :  — 

"  Say,  Sarah,  ye  don't  s'pose  it 's  all  goin'  to 
fush  out,  do  ye  ?  " 

They  had  their  funeral. 

To  the  childish  memory,  so  many  of  the  yards 
are  redolent  now  of  wonder  and  a  strange, 
sweet  fragrance  of  the  fancy  not  to  be  de 
scribed !  One,  where  lived  a  notable  cook, 
had,  in  a  quiet  corner,  a  little  grove  of  caraway. 
It  seemed  mysteriously  connected  with  the 
oak-leaf  cookies,  which  only  she  could  make ; 


DOORYARDS  13 

and  the  child,  brushing  through  the  delicate 
bushes  grown  above  his  head,  used  to  feel 
vaguely  that,  on  some  fortunate  day,  cookies 
would  be  found  there,  "a-blowin'  and  a-growin'." 
That  he  had  seen  them  stirred  and  mixed  and 
taken  from  the  oven  was  an  empty  matter ;  the 
cookies  belonged  to  the  caraway  grove,  and 
there  they  hang  ungathered  still.  In  the  very 
same  yard  was  a  hogshead  filled  with  rain 
water,  where  insects  came  daily  to  their  death 
and  floated  pathetically  in  a  film  of  gauzy  wings. 
The  child  feared  this  innocent  black  pool, 
feared  it  too  much  to  let  it  alone  ;  and  day  by 
day  he  would  hang  upon  the  rim  with  trembling 
fingers,  and  search  the  black,  smooth  depths, 
with  all  Ophelia's  pangs.  And  to  this  moment, 
no  rushing  river  is  half  so  ministrant  to  dread 
as  is  a  still,  dull  hogshead,  where  insects  float 
and  fly. 

These  are  our  dooryards.  I  wish  we  lived 
in  them  more  ;  that  there  were  vines  to  sing 
under,  and  shade  enough  for  the  table,  with 
its  wheaten  loaf  and  good  farm  butter,  and 
its  smoking  tea.  But  all  that  may  come  when 
we  give  up  our  frantic  haste,  and  sit  down  to 
look,  and  breathe,  and  listen. 


A   MARCH   WIND 

WHEN  the  clouds  hung  low,  or  chimneys  re 
fused  to  draw,  or  the  bread  soured  over  night, 
a  pessimistic  public,  turning  for  relief  to  the 
local  drama,  said  that  Amelia  Titcomb  had 
married  a  tramp.  But  as  soon  as  the  heavens 
smiled  again,  it  was  conceded  that  she  must 
have  been  getting  lonely  in  her  middle  age, 
and  that  she  had  taken  the  way  of  wisdom  so 
to  furbish  up  mansions  for  the  coming  years. 
Whatever  was  set  down  on  either  side  of  the 
page,  Amelia  did  not  care.  She  was  whole 
heartedly  content  with  her  husband  and  their 
farm. 

It  had  happened,  one  autumn  day,  that  she 
was  trying,  all  alone,  to  clean  out  the  cistern. 
This  was  while  she  was  still  Amelia  Titcomb, 
innocent  that  there  lived  a  man  in  the  world 
who  could  set  his  foot  upon  her  maiden  state, 
and  flourish  there.  She  was  an  impatient 
creature.  She  never  could  delay  for  a  foster 
ing  time  to  put  her  plants  into  the  ground,  and 
her  fall  cleaning  was  done  long  before  the  flies 
were  gone.  So,  to-day,  while  other  house  mis 
tresses  sat  cosily  by  the  fire,  awaiting  a  milder 
season,  she  was  toiling  up  and  down  the  ladder 


A   MARCH  WIND  15 

set  in  the  cistern,  dipping  pails  of  sediment 
from  the  bottom,  and,  hardy  as  she  was,  almost 
repenting  her  of  a  too -fierce  desire.  Her 
thick  brown  hair  was  roughened  and  blown 
about  her  face,  her  cheeks  bloomed  out  in  a 
frosty  pink,  and  the  plaid  kerchief,  tied  in  a 
hard  knot  under  her  chin,  seemed  foolishly 
ineffectual  against  the  cold.  Her  hands  ached, 
holding  the  pail,  and  she  rebelled  inwardly 
against  the  inclemency  of  the  time.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  she  could  have  put  off  this 
exacting  job.  She  would  sooner  have  expected 
Heaven  to  put  off  the  weather.  Just  as  she 
reached  the  top  of  the  cistern,  and  lifted  her 
pail  of  refuse  over  the  edge,  a  man  appeared 
from  the  other  side  of  the  house,  and  stood 
confronting  her.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and 
his  deeply  graven  face  was  framed  by  grizzled 
hair.  Amelia  had  a  rapid  thought  that  he  was 
not  so  old  as  he  looked ;  experience,  rather 
than  years,  must  have  wrought  its  trace  upon 
him.  He  was  leading  a  little  girl,  dressed  with 
a  very  patent  regard  for  warmth,  and  none 
for  beauty.  Amelia,  with  a  quick,  feminine 
glance,  noted  that  the  child's  bungled  skirt  and 
hideous  waist  had  been  made  from  an  old  army 
overcoat.  The  little  maid's  brown  eyes  were 
sweet  and  seeking ;  they  seemed  to  petition 
for  something.  Amelia's  heart  did  not  re 
spond  ;  at  that  time,  she  had  no  reason  for 
thinking  she  was  fond  of  children.  Yet  she 


iG  TIVERTON   TALES 

felt  a  curious  disturbance  at  sight  of  the  pair. 
She  afterwards  explained  it  adequately  to  the 
man,  by  asserting  that  they  looked  as  odd  as 
Dick's  hatband. 

"Want  any  farmwork  done?"  asked  he. 
"  Enough  to  pay  for  a  night's  lodgin'  ?  "  His 
voice  sounded  strangely  soft  from  one  so  large 
and  rugged.  It  hinted  at  unused  possibilities. 
But  though  Amelia  felt  impressed,  she  was 
conscious  of  little  more  than  her  own  cold  and 
stiffness,  and  she  answered  sharply,  — 

"No,  I  don't.  I  don't  calculate  to  hire, 
except  in  hayin'  time,  an'  then  I  don't  take 
tramps." 

The  man  dropped  the  child's  hand,  and 
pushed  her  gently  to  one  side. 

"Stan1  there,  Rosie,"  said  he.  Then  he 
went  forward,  and  drew  the  pail  from  Amelia's 
unwilling  grasp.  "  Where  do  you  empt'  it  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  There  ?  It  ought  to  be  carried 
further.  You  don't  want  to  let  it  gully  down 
into  that  beet  bed.  Here,  I  '11  see  to  it." 

Perhaps  this  was  the  very  first  time  in 
Amelia's  life  that  a  man  had  offered  her  an 
unpaid  service  for  chivalry  alone.  And  some 
how,  though  she  might  have  scoffed,  knowing 
what  the  tramp  had  to  gain,  she  believed  in 
him  and  in  his  kindliness.  The  little  girl 
stood  by,  as  if  she  were  long  used  to  doing  as 
she  had  been  told,  with  no  expectation  of  diffi 
cult  reasons ;  and  the  man,  as  soberly,  went 


A  MARCH   WIND  17 

about  his  task.  He  emptied  the  cistern,  and 
cleansed  it,  with  plentiful  washings.  Then,  as 
if  guessing  by  instinct  what  he  should  find,  he 
went  into  the  kitchen,  where  were  two  tubs 
full  of  the  water  which  Amelia  had  pumped  up 
at  the  start.  It  had  to  be  carried  back  again 
to  the  cistern  ;  and  when  the  job  was  quite  fin 
ished,  he  opened  the  bulkhead,  set  the  tubs  in 
the  cellar,  and  then,  covering  the  cistern  and 
cellar-case,  rubbed  his  cold  hands  on  his  trou 
sers,  and  turned  to  the  child. 

"  Come,  Rosie,"  said  he,  "  we'll  be  goin'." 

It  was  a  very  effective  finale,  but  still  Amelia 
suspected  no  trickery.  The  situation  seemed 
to  her,  just  as  the  two  new  actors  did,  entirely 
simple,  like  the  course  of  nature.  Only,  the 
day  was  a  little  warmer  because  they  had  ap 
peared.  She  had  a  new  sensation  of  welcome 
company.  So  it  was  that,  quite  to  her  own 
surprise,  she  answered  as  quickly  as  he  spoke, 
and  her  reply  also  seemed  an  inevitable  part  of 
the  drama :  — 

"  Walk  right  in.  It 's  'most  dinner-time, 
an'  I  '11  put  on  the  pot."  The  two  stepped  in 
before  her,  and  they  did  not  go  away. 

Amelia  herself  never  quite  knew  how  it  hap 
pened  ;  but,  like  all  the  other  natural  things 
of  life,  this  had  no  need  to  be  explained.  At 
first,  there  were  excellent  reasons  for  delay. 
The  man,  whose  name  proved  to  be  Enoch 
Willis,  was  a  marvelous  hand  at  a  blow,  and 


18  TIVERTON  TALES 

she  kept  him  a  week,  splitting  some  pine  knots 
that  defied  her  and  the  boy  who  ordinarily 
chopped  her  wood.  At  the  end  of  the  week, 
Amelia  confessed  that  she  was  "  terrible  tired 
seem'  Rosie  round  in  that  gormin'  kind  of  a 
dress  ; "  so  she  cut  and  fitted  her  a  neat  lit 
tle  gown  from  her  own  red  cashmere.  That 
was  the  second  reason.  Then  the  neighbors 
heard  of  the  mysterious  guest,  and  dropped  in, 
to  place  and  label  him.  At  first,  following  the 
lead  of  undiscouraged  fancy,  they  declared  that 
he  must  be  some  of  cousin  Silas's  connections 
from  Omaha  ;  but  even  before  Amelia  had 
time  to  deny  that,  his  ignorance  of  local  tra 
dition  denied  it  for  him.  He  must  have  heard 
of  this  or  that,  by  way  of  cousin  Silas  ;  but 
he  owned  to  nothing  defining  place  or  time, 
save  that  he  had  been  in  the  war —  "  all  through 
it."  He  seemed  to  be  a  man  quite  weary  of 
the  past  and  indifferent  to  the  future.  After 
a  half  hour's  talk  with  him,  unseasonable  call 
ers  were  likely  to  withdraw,  perhaps  into  the 
pantry,  whither  Amelia  had  retreated  to  escape 
catechism,  and  remark  jovially,  "Well,  'Melia, 
you  ain't  told  us  who  your  company  is ! " 

"  Mr.  Willis,"  said  Amelia.  She  was  emu 
lating  his  habit  of  reserve.  It  made  a  part  of 
her  new  loyalty. 

Even  to  her,  Enoch  had  told  no  tales  ;  and 
strangely  enough,  she  was  quite  satisfied.  She 
trusted  him.  He  did  say  that  Rosie's  mother 


A   MARCH  WIND  19 

was  dead ;  for  the  last  five  years,  he  said,  she 
had  been  out  of  her  mind.  At  that,  Amelia's 
heart  gave  a  fierce,  amazing  leap.  It  struck  a 
note  she  never  knew,  and  wakened  her  to  life 
and  longing.  She  was  glad  Rosie's  mother 
had  not  made  him  too  content.  He  went  on 
a  step  or  two  into  the  story  of  his  life.  His, 
wife's  last  illness  had  eaten  up  the  little  place, 
and  after  she  went,  he  got  no  work.  So,  he 
tramped.  He  must  go  again.  Amelia's  voice 
sounded  sharp  and  thin,  even  to  her,  as  she 
answered,  — 

"Go!  I  dun  no  what  you  want  to  do  that 
for.  Rosie  's  terrible  contented  here." 

His  brown  eyes  turned  upon  her  in  a  kindly 
glance. 

"  I  've  got  to  make  a  start  somewhere," 
said  he.  "  I  've  been  thinkin'  a  machine 
shop  's  the  best  thing.  I  shall  have  to  depend 
on  somethin'  better  'n  days'  works." 

Amelia  flushed  the  painful  red  of  emotion 
without  beauty. 

"I  dunno  what  we're  all  comin'  to,"  said 
she  brokenly. 

Then  the  tramp  knew.  He  put  his  gnarled 
hand  over  one  of  hers.  Rosie  looked  up  curi 
ously  from  the  speckled  beans  she  was  count 
ing  into  a  bag,  and  then  went  on  singing  to 
herself  an  unformed,  baby  song.  "  Folks  '11 
talk,"  said  Enoch  gently.  "They  do  now. 
A  man  an'  woman  ain't  never  too  old  to  be 


20  TIVERTON   TALES 

hauled  up,  an'  made  to  answer  for  livin'.  If  I 
was  younger,  an'  had  suthin'  to  depend  on, 
you  'd  see  ;  but  I  'm  no  good  now.  The  bet 
ter  part  o'  my  life  's  gone." 

Amelia  flashed  at  him  a  pathetic  look,  half 
agony  over  her  own  lost  pride,  and  all  a  long 
ing  of  maternal  love. 

"  I  don't  want  you  should  be  younger,"  said 
she.  And  next  week  they  were  married. 

Comment  ran  races  with  itself,  and  brought 
up  nowhere.  The  treasuries  of  local  speech 
were  all  too  poor  to  clothe  so  wild  a  venture. 
It  was  agreed  that  there  's  no  fool  like  an  old 
fool,  and  that  folks  who  ride  to  market  may 
come  home  afoot.  Everybody  forgot  that 
Amelia  had  had  no  previous  romance,  and  dis 
mally  pictured  her  as  going  through  the  woods, 
and  getting  a  crooked  stick  at  last.  Even  the 
milder  among  her  judges  were  not  content 
with  prophesying  the  betrayal  of  her  trust 
alone.  They  argued  from  the  tramp  nature  to 
inevitable  results,  and  declared  it  would  be  a 
mercy  if  she  were  not  murdered  in  her  bed. 
According  to  the  popular  mind,  a  tramp  is  a 
distinct  species,  with  latent  tendencies  toward 
crime.  It  was  recalled  that  a  white  woman 
had,  in  the  old  days,  married  a  comely  Indian, 
whose  first  drink  of  fire-water,  after  six  months 
of  blameless  happiness,  had  sent  him  raging 
home,  to  kill  her  "  in  her  tracks."  Could  a 
tramp,  pledged  to  the  traditions  of  an  awful 


A   MARCH   WIND  21 

brotherhood,  do  less  ?  No,  even  in  honor,  no ! 
Amelia  never  knew  how  the  tide  of  public 
apprehension  surged  about  her,  nor  how  her 
next-door  neighbor  looked  anxiously  out,  the 
first  thing  on  rising,  to  exclaim,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  and  possibly  a  dramatic  pang,  "  There  ! 
her  smoke  's  a-goinV 

Meantime,  the  tramp  fell  into  all  the  usages 
of  life  indoors ;  and  without,  he  worked  revolu 
tion.  He  took  his  natural  place  at  the  head 
of  affairs,  and  Amelia  stood  by,  rejoicing. 
Her  besetting  error  of  doing  things  at  the 
wrong  moment  had  disarranged  great  combi 
nations  as  well  as  small.  Her  impetuosity  was 
constantly  misleading  her,  bidding  her  try,  this 
one  time,  whether  harvest  might  not  follow 
faster  on  the  steps  of  spring.  Enoch's  mind 
was  of  another  cast.  For  him,  tradition  reigned, 
and  law  was  ever  laying  out  the  way.  Some 
months  after  their  marriage,  Amelia  had  urged 
him  to  take  away  the  winter  banking  about 
the  house,  for  no  reason  save  that  the  Mar. 
dens  clung  to  theirs ;  but  he  only  replied  that 
he  'd  known  of  cold  snaps  way  on  into  May, 
and  he  guessed  there  was  no  particular  hurry. 
The  very  next  day  brought  a  bitter  air,  laden 
with  sleet,  and  Amelia,  shivering  at  the  open 
door,  exulted  in  her  feminine  soul  at  finding 
him  triumphant  on  his  own  ground.  Enoch 
seemed,  as  usual,  unconscious  of  victory.  His 
immobility  had  no  personal  flavor.  He  merely 


22  TIVERTON   TALES 

acted  from  an  inevitable  devotion  to  the  laws 
of  life  ;  and  however  often  they  might  prove 
him  right,  he  never  seemed  to  reason  that 
Amelia  was  consequently  wrong.  Perhaps 
that  was  what  made  it  so  pleasant  to  live  with 
him. 

It  was  "  easy  sleddin*  "  now.  Amelia  grew 
very  young.  Her  cheeks  gained  a  bloom,  her 
eyes  brightened.  She  even,  as  the  matrons 
noticed,  took  to  crimping  her  hair.  They 
looked  on  with  a  pitying  awe.  It  seemed  a 
fearsome  thing,  to  do  so  much  for  a  tramp 
who  would  only  kill  you  in  the  end.  Amelia 
stepped  deftly  about  the  house.  She  was  a  large 
woman,  whose  ways  had  been  devoid  of  grace ; 
but  now  the  richness  of  her  spiritual  condition 
informed  her  with  a  charm.  She  crooned  a 
little  about  her  work.  Singing  voice  she  had 
none,  but  she  grew  into  a  way  of  putting  words 
together,  sometimes  a  line  from  the  psalms, 
sometimes  a  name  she  loved,  and  chanting  the 
sounds,  in  unrecorded  melody.  Meanwhile, 
little  Rosie,  always  irreproachably  dressed, 
with  a  jealous  care  lest  she  fall  below  the  pop 
ular  standard,  roamed  in  and  out  of  the  house, 
and  lightened  its  dull  intervals.  She,  like  the 
others,  grew  at  once  very  happy,  because,  like 
them,  she  accepted  her  place  without  a  qualm, 
as  if  it  had  been  hers  from  the  beginning. 
They  were  simple  natures,  and  when  their  joj 
came,  they  knew  how  to  meet  it 


A   MARCH   WIND  23 

But  if  Enoch  was  content  to  follow  the 
beaten  ways  of  life,  there  was  one  window 
through  which  he  looked  into  the  upper  heaven 
of  all :  thereby  he  saw  what  it  is  to  create.  He 
was  a  born  mechanician.  A  revolving  wheel 
would  set  him  to  dreaming,  and  still  him  to 
that  lethargy  of  mind  which  is  an  involuntary 
sharing  in  the  things  that  are.  He  could 
lose  himself  in  the  life  of  rhythmic  motion  ; 
and  when  he  discovered  rusted  springs,  or 
cogs  unprepared  to  fulfill  their  purpose,  he 
fell  upon  them  with  the  ardor  of  a  worshiper, 
and  tried  to  set  them  right.  Amelia  thought 
he  should  have  invented  something,  and  he 
confessed  that  he  had  invented  many  things, 
but  somehow  failed  in  getting  them  on  the. 
market.  That  process  he  mentioned  with  the 
indifference  of  a  man  to  whom  a  practical  out 
come  is  vague,  and  who  finds  in  the  ideal  a 
bright  reality.  Even  Amelia  could  see  that 
to  be  a  maker  was  his  joy  ;  to  reap  rewards 
of  making  was  another  and  a  lower  task. 

One  cold  day  in  the  early  spring,  he  went 
"  up  garret  "  to  hunt  out  an  old  saddle,  gather 
ing  mildew  there,  and  came  upon  a  greater 
treasure,  a  disabled  clock.  He  stepped  heav 
ily  down,  bearing  it  aloft  in  both  hands. 

"See  here,  'Melia,"  asked  he,  "why  don't 
this  go?" 

Amelia  was  scouring  tins  on  the  kitchen 
table.  There  was  a  teasing  wind  outside,  with 


24  TIVERTON   TALES 

a  flurry  of  snow,  and  she  had  acknowledged 
that  the  irritating  weather  made  her  as  nervous 
as  a  witch.  So  she  had  taken  to  a  job  to  quiet 
herself. 

"  That  clock  ?  "  she  replied.  "  That  was  gran'- 
ther  Eli's.  It  give  up  strikin',  an'  then  the 
hands  stuck,  an'  I  lost  all  patience  with  it.  So 
I  bought  this  nickel  one,  an'  carted  t'  other  off 
into  the  attic.  'T  ain't  worth  fixin'." 

"  Worth  it  !  "  repeated  Enoch.  "  Well,  I 
guess  I  '11  give  it  a  chance." 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  stove,  and  there  hes 
itated.  "  Say,  'Melia,"  said  he,  "  should  you 
jest  as  soon  I  'd  bring  in  that  old  shoemaker's 
bench  out  o'  the  shed  ?  It 's  low,  an'  I  could 
reach  my  tools  off  n  the  floor." 

Amelia  lacked  the  discipline  of  contact  with 
her  kind,  but  she  was  nevertheless  smooth  as 
silk  in  her  new  wifehood. 

"  Law,  yes,  bring  it  along,"  said  she.  "  It 's 
a  good  day  to  clutter  up.  The'  won't  be  no 
body  in." 

So,  while  Enoch  laid  apart  the  clock  with 
a  delicacy  of  touch  known  only  to  square, 
mechanical  fingers,  and  Rosie  played  with  the 
button-box  on  the  floor,  assorting  colors  and 
matching  white  with  white,  Amelia  scoured 
the  tins.  Her  energy  kept  pace  with  the 
wind  ;  it  whirled  in  gusts  and  snatches,  yet  her 
precision  never  failed. 

"  Made  up  your  mind  which  cow  to  sell  ? " 


A  MARCH   WIND  25 

she  asked,  opening  a  discussion  still  unsettled, 
after  days  of  animated  talk. 

"Ain't  much  to  choose,"  said  Enoch.  He 
had  frankly  set  Amelia  right  on  the  subject 
of  livestock  ;  and  she  smilingly  acquiesced  in 
his  larger  knowledge.  "  Elbridge  True 's  got  a 
mighty  nice  Alderney,  an'  if  he 's  goin'  to  sell 
milk  another  year,  he'll  be  glad  to  get  two 
good  milkers  like  these.  What  he  wants  is 
ten  quarts  apiece,  no  matter  if  it 's  bluer  'n  a 
whetstone.  I  guess  I  can  swap  off  with  him ; 
but  I  don't  want  to  run  arter  him.  I  put  the 
case  last  Thursday.  Mebbe  he  '11  drop  round." 

"  Well,"  concluded  Amelia,  "  I  guess  you 
're  pretty  sure  to  do  what 's  right." 

The  forenoon  galloped  fast,  and  it  was  half 
past  eleven  before  she  thought  of  dinner. 

"Why,"  said  she,  "ain't  it  butcher  day? 
I  Ve  been  lottin'  on  a  piece  o'  liver." 

"Butcher  day  is  Thursday,"  said  Enoch. 
"  You  've  lost  count." 

"  My  land  !  "  responded  Amelia.  "  Well,  I 
guess  we  can  put  up  with  some  fried  pork  an' 
apples."  There  came  a  long,  insistent  knock 
at  the  outer  door.  "  Good  heavens  !  Who  's 
there  !  Rosie,  you  run  to  the  side-light,  an* 
peek.  It  can't  be  a  neighbor.  They  'd  come 
right  in.  I  hope  my  soul  it  ain't  company,  a 
day  like  this." 

Rosie  got  on  her  fat  legs  with  difficulty. 
She  held  her  pinafore  full  of  buttons,  but  dis- 


26  TIVERTON   TALES 

aster  lies  in  doing  too  many  things  at  once; 
there  came  a  slip,  a  despairing  clutch,  and  the 
buttons  fell  over  the  floor.  There  were  a  great 
many  round  ones,  and  they  rolled  very  fast. 
Amelia  washed  the  sand  from  her  parboiled 
fingers,  and  drew  a  nervous  breath.  She  had 
a  presentiment  of  coming  ill,  painfully  height 
ened  by  her  consciousness  that  the  kitchen 
was  "  riding  out,"  and  that  she  and  her  family 
rode  with  it.  Rosie  came  running  back  from 
her  peephole,  husky  with  importance.  The 
errant  buttons  did  not  trouble  her.  She  had 
an  eternity  of  time  wherein  to  pick  them  up ; 
and,  indeed,  the  chances  were  that  some  tall, 
benevolent  being  would  do  it  for  her. 

"  It 's  a  man,"  she  said.  "  He 's  got  on  a 
light  coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  a  fuzzy  hat. 
He 's  got  a  big  nose." 

Now,  indeed,  despair  entered  into  Amelia, 
and  sat  enthroned.  She  sank  down  on  a 
straight-backed  chair,  and  put  her  hands  on 
her  knees,  while  the  knock  came  again,  a  little 
querulously. 

"  Enoch,"  said  she,  "  do  you  know  what 's 
happened  ?  That 's  cousin  Josiah  Pease  out 
there."  Her  voice  bore  the  tragedy  of  a  thou 
sand  past  encounters ;  but  that  Enoch  could 
not  know. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  asked  he,  with  but  a  mild  appear 
ance  of  interest.  "Want  me  to  go  to  the 
door?" 


A  MARCH   WIND  27 

"  Go  to  the  door  !  "  echoed  Amelia,  so  stri 
dently  that  he  looked  up  at  her  again.  "  No  ;  I 
don't  want  anybody  should  go  to  the  door  till 
this  room  's  cleared  up.  If  't  w'an't  so  ever- 
lastin'  cold,  I  'd  take  him  right  into  the  clock- 
room,  an'  blaze  a  fire ;  but  he  'd  see  right 
through  that.  You  gether  up  them  tools  an' 
things,  an'  I  '11  help  carry  out  the  bench." 

If  Enoch  had  not  just  then  been  absorbed 
in  a  delicate  combination  of  brass,  he  might 
have  spoken  more  sympathetically.  As  it  was, 
he  seemed  kindly,  but  remote. 

"  Look  out !  "  said  he,  "you  '11  joggle.  No, 
I  guess  I  won't  move.  If  he  's  any  kind  of  a 
man,  he  '11  know  what  't  is  to  clean  a  clock." 

Amelia  was  not  a  crying  woman,  but  the 
hot  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  She  was  experi 
encing,  for  the  first  time,  that  helpless  pang 
born  from  the  wounding  of  pride  in  what  we 
love. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Enoch  ? "  she  insisted. 
"  This  room  looks  like  the  Old  Boy  —  an'  so  do 
you  —  an'  he  '11  go  home  an'  tell  all  the  folks 
at  the  Ridge.  Why,  he  's  heard  we're  married, 
an'  come  over  here  to  spy  out  the  land.  He 
hates  the  cold.  He  never  stirs  till  'way  on 
into  June  ;  an'  now  he's  come  to  find  out." 

"Find  out  what?"  inquired  Enoch  absorb 
edly.     "  Well,  if  you  're  anyways  put  to  't,  you 
send  him  to  me."     That  manly  utterance  enun 
ciated  from  a  "  best-room  "  sofa,  by  an  Enoch 


28  TIVERTON   TALES 

clad  in  his  Sunday  suit,  would  have  filled 
Amelia  with  rapture  ;  she  could  have  leaned 
on  it  as  on  the  Tables  of  the  Law.  But,  alas  ! 
the  scene  -  setting  was  meagre,  and  though 
Enoch  was  very  clean,  he  had  no  good  clothes. 
He  had  pointedly  refused  to  buy  them  with 
his  wife's  money  until  he  should  have  worked 
on  the  farm  to  a  corresponding  amount.  She 
had  loved  him  for  it ;  but  every  day  his  outer 
poverty  hurt  her  pride.  "  I  guess  you  better 
ask  him  in,"  concluded  Enoch.  "Don't  you 
let  him  bother  you." 

Amelia  turned  about  with  the  grand  air  of  a 
woman  repulsed. 

"  He  don't  bother  me,"  said  she,  "  an'  I  will 
let  him  in."  She  walked  to  the  door,  stepping 
on  buttons  as  she  went,  and  conscious,  when 
she  broke  them,  of  a  bitter  pleasure.  It  added 
to  her  martyrdom. 

She  flung  open  the  door,  and  called  herself 
a  fool  in  the  doing ;  for  the  little  old  man 
outside  was  in  the  act  of  turning  away.  In 
another  instant,  she  might  have  escaped.  But 
he  was  only  too  eager  to  come  back  again,  and 
it  seemed  to  Amelia  as  if  he  would  run  over 
her,  in  his  desire  to  get  in. 

"There!  there!  'Melia,"  said  he,  pushing 
past  her,  "  can't  stop  to  talk  till  I  git  near  the 
fire.  Guess  you  were  settin'  in  the  kitchen, 
wa'n't  ye  ?  Don't  make  no  stranger  o'  me. 
That  your  man  ?  " 


A   MARCH   WIND  29 

She  had  shut  the  door,  and  entered,  exas 
perated  anew  by  the  rising  wind.  "  That 's  my 
husband,"  said  she  coldly.  "  Enoch,  here 's 
cousin  Josiah  Pease." 

Enoch  looked  up  benevolently  over  his  spec 
tacles,  and  put  out  a  horny  left  hand,  the  while 
the  other  guarded  his  heap  of  treasures. 
"  Pleased  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  he.  "  You 
see  I'm  tinkerin'  a  clock." 

To  Enoch,  the  explanation  was  enough.  All 
the  simple  conventions  of  his  life  might  well 
wait  upon  a  reason  potent  as  this.  Josiah 
Pease  went  to  the  stove,  and  stood  holding  his 
tremulous  hands  over  a  cover.  He  was  a  little 
man,  eclipsed  in  a  butternut  coat  of  many 
capes,  and  his  parchment  face  shaded  gradually 
up  from  it,  as  if  into  a  harder  medium.  His 
eyes  were  light,  and  they  had  an  exceedingly 
uncomfortable  way  of  darting  from  one  thing 
to  another,  like  some  insect  born  to  spear  and 
sting.  His  head  was  entirely  bald,  all  save  a 
thin  fringe  of  hair  not  worth  mentioning,  since 
it  disappeared  so  effectually  beneath  his  collar  ; 
and  his  general  antiquity  was  grotesquely  em 
phasized  by  two  sets  of  aggressive  teeth,  dis 
playing  their  falsity  from  every  crown. 

Amelia  took  out  the  broom,  and  began 
sweeping  up  buttons.  She  had  an  acrid  con 
sciousness  that  by  sacrificing  them  she  was 
somehow  completing  the  tragedy  of  her  day. 
Rosie  gave  a  little  cry ;  but  Amelia  pointed  to 


30  TIVERTON  TALES 

the  corner  where  stood  the  child's  chair,  ex 
humed  from  the  attic,  after  forty  years  of  rest. 
41  You  set  there,"  she  said,  in  an  undertone, 
"an'  keep  still." 

Rosie  obeyed  without  a  word.  Such  an 
atmosphere  had  not  enveloped  her  since  she 
entered  this  wonderful  house.  Remembering 
vaguely  the  days  when  her  own  mother  had 
"  spells,"  and  she  and  her  father  effaced  them 
selves  until  times  should  change,  she  folded 
her  little  hands,  and  lapsed  back  into  a  con 
dition  of  mental  servitude. 

Meanwhile,  Amelia  followed  nervously  in 
the  track  of  Enoch's  talk  with  cousin  Josiah, 
though  her  mind  kept  its  undercurrent  of  fool 
ish  musing.  Like  all  of  us,  snatched  up  by 
the  wheels  of  great  emergencies,  she  caught 
at  trifles  while  they  whirled  her  round.  Here 
were  "  soldier-buttons."  All  the  other  girls 
had  collected  them,  though  she,  having  no  lover 
in  the  war,  had  traded  for  her  few.  Here  were 
the  gold-stones  that  held  her  changeable  silk, 
there  the  little  clouded  pearls  from  her  sister's 
raglan.  Annie  had  died  in  youth ;  its  gla 
mour  still  enwrapped  her.  Poor  Annie  !  But 
Rosie  had  seemed  to  bring  her  back.  Amelia 
swept  litter,  buttons  and  all,  into  the  dustpan, 
and  marched  to  the  stove  to  throw  her  booty 
in.  Nobody  marked  her  save  Rosie,  whose 
playthings  were  endangered  ;  but  Enoch's  very 
obtuseness  to  the  situation  was  what  stayed  her 


A  MARCH   WIND  31 

hand.  She  carried  the  dustpan  away  into  a 
closet,  and  came  back,  to  gather  up  her  tins. 
A  cold  rage  of  nervousness  beset  her,  so  over 
powering  that  she  herself  was  amazed  at  it. 

Meantime,  Josiah  Pease  had  divested  him 
self  of  his  coat,  and  drawn  the  grandfather 
chair  into  a  space  behind  the  stove. 

"  You  a  clock-mender  by  trade  ? "  he  asked 
of  Enoch. 

"  No,"  said  Enoch  absently,  "  I  ain't  got  any 
reg'lar  trade." 

"Jest  goin'  round  the  country?"  amended 
cousin  Josiah,  with  the  preliminary  insinua 
tion  Amelia  knew  so  well.  He  was,  it  had 
been  said,  in  the  habit  of  inventing  lies,  and 
challenging  other  folks  to  stick  to  'em.  But 
Enoch  made  no  reply.  He  went  soberly  on 
with  his  work. 

"  Law,  'Melia,  to  think  o'  your  bein*  mar 
ried,"  continued  Josiah,  turning  to  her.  "I 
never  should  ha'  thought  that  o'  you." 

"  I  never  thought  it  of  myself,"  said  Amelia 
tartly.  "You  don't  know  what  you'll  do  till 
you  're  tried." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  Josiah  Pease.  "  Never  in 
the  world.  You  remember  Sally  Flint,  how 
plain-spoken  she  is  ?  Well,  Betsy  Marden's  dar 
ter  Ann  rode  down  to  the  poor-house  t'  other 
day  with  some  sweet  trade,  an'  took  a  young 
sprig  with  her.  He  turned  his  back  a  minute, 
to  look  out  o'  winder,  an*  Sally  spoke  right  up, 


32  TIVERTON   TALES 

as  ye  might  say,  afore  him.  *  That  your  beau  ?' 
says  she.  Well,  o'  course  Ann  could  n't  own 
it,  an*  him  right  there,  so  to  speak.  So  she 
shook  her  head.  '  Well,  I  'm  glad  on  't,'  says 
Sally.  'If  I  couldn't  have  anything  to  eat, 
I  'd  have  suthin'  to  look  at  ! '  He  was  the 
most  unsignifyin'est  creatur'  you  ever  put  your 
eyes  on.  But  they  say  Ann  's  started  in  on  her 
clo'es." 

Amelia's  face  had  grown  scarlet.  "  I  dunno  's 
any  such  speech  is  called  for  here,"  said  she, 
in  a  furious  self-betrayal.  Josiah  Pease  had 
always  been  able  to  storm  her  reserves. 

"Law,  no,"  answered  he  comfortably.  "It 
come  into  my  mind,  — that 's  all." 

She  looked  at  Enoch  with  a  passionate  sym 
pathy,  knowing  too  well  how  the  hidden  sting 
was  intended  to  work.  But  Enoch  had  not 
heard.  He  was  absorbed  in  a  finer  problem  of 
brass  and  iron  ;  and  though  Amelia  had  wished 
to  save  him  from  hurt,  in  that  instant  she 
scorned  him  for  his  blindness.  "  I  guess  I 
shall  have  to  ask  you  to  move,"  she  said  to  her 
husband  coldly.  "  I  've  got  to  git  to  that  stove, 
if  we  're  goin'  to  have  any  dinner  to-day." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  even  Enoch  might 
take  the  hint,  and  clear  away  his  rubbish. 
Her  feelings  might  have  been  assuaged  by  a 
clean  hearth  and  some  acquiescence  in  her  own 
mood.  But  he  only  moved  back  a  little,  and 
went  on  fitting  and  musing.  He  was  not  think- 


A   MARCH  WIND  33 

ing  of  her  in  the  least,  nor  even  of  Josiah 
Pease.  His  mind  had  entered  its  brighter, 
more  alluring  world.  She  began  to  fry  her 
pork  and  apples,  with  a  perfunctory  attempt  at 
conversation.  "  You  don't  often  git  round  so 
early  in  the  spring,"  said  she. 

"  No,"  returned  cousin  Josiah.  "  I  kind  o* 
got  started  out,  this  time,  I  don't  rightly  know 
why.  I  guess  I  've  had  you  in  mind  more  of 
late,  for  some  Tiverton  folks  come  over  our 
way,  tradin',  an'  they  brought  all  the  news.  It 
sort  o'  stirred  me  up  to  come." 

Amelia  turned  her  apples  vigorously,  well 
aware  that  the  slices  were  breaking.  That 
made  a  part  of  her  bitter  day. 

"  Folks  need  n't  take  the  trouble  to  carry 
news  about  me,"  she  said.  There  was  an 
angry  gleam  in  her  eyes.  "  If  anybody  wants 
to  know  anything,  let  'em  come  right  here,  an' 
I  '11  settle  'em."  The  ring  of  her  voice  pene 
trated  even  to  Enoch's  perception,  and  he 
looked  up  in  mild  surprise.  She  seemed  to 
have  thrown  open,  for  an  instant,  a  little  win 
dow  into  a  part  of  her  nature  he  had  never 
seen. 

"  How  good  them  apples  smell !  "  said  Josiah 
innocently.  "  Last  time  I  had  'em  was  down 
to  cousin  Amasa  True's,  he  that  married  his 
third  wife,  an'  she  run  through  all  he  had.  I 
went  down  to  see  'em  arter  the  vandoo,  —  you 
know  they  got  red  o'  most  everything,  —  an* 


34  TIVERTON  TALES 

they  had  fried  pork  an'  apples  for  dinner.  Old 
Bashaby  dropped  in.  '  Law  ! '  says  she.  *  Fried 
pork  an'  apples  !  Well,  I  call  that  livin'  pretty 
nigh  the  wind  ! '  "  Josiah  chuckled.  He  was 
very  warm  now,  and  the  savory  smell  of  the 
dish  he  decried  was  mounting  to  what  served 
him  for  fancy.  "'Melia,  you  ain't  never  had 
your  teeth  out,  have  ye  ? "  he  asked,  as  one 
who  spoke  from  richer  memories. 

"  I  guess  my  teeth  '11  last  me  as  long  as  I 
want  *em,"  said  Amelia  curtly. 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  know.  They  looked  real 
white  an'  firm  last  time  I  see  'em,  but  you 
never  can  tell  how  they  be  underneath.  I 
knew  the  folks  would  ask  me  when  I  got 
home.  I  thought  I  'd  speak." 

"Dinner's  ready,"  said  Amelia.  She  turned 
an  alien  look  upon  her  husband.  "  You  want 
to  wash  your  hands  ?  " 

Enoch  rose  cheerfully.  He  had  got  to  a 
hopeful  place  with  the  clock. 

"Set  ri'  down,"  said  he.  "Don't  wait  a 
minute.  I  '11  be  along." 

So  Amelia  and  the  guest  began  their  meal, 
while  little  Rosie  climbed,  rather  soberly,  into 
her  higher  chair,  and  held  out  her  plate. 

"You  wait,"  said  Amelia  harshly.  "Can't 
you  let  other  folks  eat  a  mouthful  before  you 
have  to  have  yours  ?  "  Yet  as  she  said  it,  she 
remembered,  with  a  remorseful  pang,  that  she 
had  always  helped  the  child  first ;  it  had  been 
so  sweet  to  see  her  pleased  and  satisfied. 


A  MARCH   WIND  35 

Josiah  was  never  talkative  during  meals. 
Not  being  absolute  master  of  his  teeth,  his 
mind  dwelt  with  them.  Amelia  remembered 
that,  with  a  malicious  satisfaction.  But  he 
could  not  be  altogether  dumb.  That,  people 
said,  would  never  happen  to  Josiah  Pease 
while  he  was  above  ground. 

"That  his  girl  ?  "  he  asked,  indicating  Rosie 
with  his  knife,  in  a  gustatory  pause. 

"  Whose  ?  "  inquired  Amelia  willfully. 

"  His."  He  pointed  again,  this  time  to  the 
back  room,  where  Enoch  was  still  washing  his 
hands. 

"  Yes." 

"  Mother  dead  ?  " 

Amelia  sprang  from  her  chair,  while  Rosie 
looked  at  her  with  the  frightened  glance  of  a 
child  to  whom  some  half-forgotten  grief  has 
suddenly  returned. 

"  Josiah  Pease  !  "  said  Amelia.  "  I  never 
thought  a  poor,  insignificant  creatur'  like  you 
could  rile  me  so,  —  when  I  know  what  you  're 
doin'  it  for,  too.  But  you  've  brought  it  about. 
Her  mother  dead  ?  Ain't  I  been  an'  married 
her  father  ? " 

"  Law,  Amelia,  do  se'  down  ! "  said  Josiah 
indulgently.  There  was  a  mince-pie  warming 
on  the  back  of  the  stove.  He  saw  it  there. 
"  I  did  n't  mean  nuthin'.  I  '11  be  bound  you 
thought  she  's  dead,  or  you  would  n't  ha'  took 
such  a  step.  I  only  meant,  did  ye  see  her 


36  TIVERTON  TALES 

death  in  the  paper,  for  example,  or  anything 
like  that  ?  " 

"  'Melia,"  called  Enoch,  from  the  doorway, 
"  I  won't  come  in  to  dinner  jest  now.  El- 
bridge  True  's  drove  into  the  yard.  I  guess  he  's 
got  it  in  mind  to  talk  it  over  about  them  cows. 
I  don't  want  to  lose  the  chance." 

"All  right,"  answered  Amelia.  She  took 
her  seat  again,  while  Enoch's  footsteps  went 
briskly  out  through  the  shed.  With  the  clang 
ing  of  the  door,  she  felt  secure.  If  she  had  to 
deal  with  Josiah  Pease,  she  could  do  it  better 
alone,  clutching  at  the  certainty  that  was  with 
her  from  of  old,  that,  if  you  could  only  keep 
your  temper  with  cousin  Josiah,  you  had  one 
chance  of  victory.  Flame  out  at  him,  and  you 
were  lost.  "  Some  more  potatoes  ?  "  asked  she, 
with  a  deceptive  calm. 

"  Don't  care  if  I  do,"  returned  Josiah,  select 
ing  greedily,  his  fork  hovering  in  air.  "  Little 
mite  watery,  ain't  they  ?  Dig  'em  yourself  ? " 

"We  dug  'em,"  said  Amelia  coldly. 

Rosie  stepped  down  from  her  chair,  unno 
ticed.  To  Amelia,  she  was  then  no  bigger 
than  some  little  winged  thing  flitting  about 
the  room  in  time  of  tragedy.  Our  greatest 
emotions  sometimes  stay  unnamed.  At  that 
moment,  Amelia  was  swayed  by  as  tumultuous 
a  love  as  ever  animated  damsel  of  verse  or 
story ;  but  it  merely  seemed  to  her  that  she 
was  an  ill-used  woman,  married  to  a  man  for 


A  MARCH  WIND  37 

whom  she  was  called  on  to  be  ashamed.  Rosie 
tiptoed  into  the  entry,  put  on  her  little  shawl 
and  hood,  and  stole  out  to  play  in  the  corn- 
house.  When  domestic  squalls  were  gather 
ing,  she  knew  where  to  go.  The  great  out 
doors  was  safer.  Her  past  had  taught  her 
that. 

"  Don't  like  to  eat  with  folks,  does  he  ? 
Well,  it 's  all  in  what  you  're  brought  up  to." 

Amelia  was  ready  with  her  counter-charge. 
"  Have  some  tea?" 

She  poured  it  as  if  it  were  poison,  and 
Josiah  became  conscious  of  her  tragic  self- 
control. 

"  You  ain't  eat  a  thing,"  said  he,  with  an 
ostentatious  kindliness.  He  bent  forward  a 
little,  with  the  air  of  inviting  a  confidence. 
"  Got  suthin'  on  your  mind,  ain't  you,  'Melia  ? " 
he  whispered.  "  Kind  o'  worried  ?  Find  he 's 
a  drinkin'  man  ?" 

Amelia  was  not  to  be  beguiled,  even  by  that 
anger  which  veils  itself  as  justice.  She  looked 
at  him  steadily,  with  scorching  eyes. 

"  You  ain't  took  any  sugar,"  said  she. 
"There  't  is,  settin'  by  you.  Help  yourself." 

Josiah  addressed  himself  to  his  tea,  and 
then  Amelia  poured  him  another  cup.  She 
had  some  fierce  satisfaction  in  making  it  good 
and  strong.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was 
heartening  her  adversary  for  the  fray,  and  she 
took  pleasure  in  doing  it  effectually.  So  great 


38  TIVERTON   TALES 

was  the  spirit  within  her  that  she  knew  he 
could  not  be  too  valiant,  for  her  keener  joy  in 
laying  him  low.  Then  they  rose  from  the 
table,  and  Josiah  took  his  old  place  by  the 
stove,  while  Amelia  began  carrying  the  dishes 
to  the  sink  Her  mind  was  a  little  hazy  now  ; 
her  next  move  must  depend  on  his,  and  cousin 
Josiah,  somewhat  drowsy  from  his  good  dinner, 
was  not  at  once  inclined  to  talk.  Suddenly 
he  raised  his  head  snakily  from  those  sunken 
shoulders,  and  pointed  a  lean  finger  to  the 
window. 

"  'Melia  ! "  cried  he  sharply.  "  I  '11  be  but 
tered  if  he  ain't  been  and  traded  off  both  your 
cows.  My  Lord  !  be  you  goin'  to  stan'  there 
an'  let  them  two  cows  go  ? " 

Amelia  gave  one  swift  glance  from  the 
window,  following  the  path  marked  out  by 
that  insinuating  index.  It  was  true.  Elbridge 
was  driving  her  two  cows  out  of  the  yard,  and 
her  husband  stood  by,  watching  him.  She 
walked  quietly  into  the  entry,  and  Josiah  laid 
his  old  hands  together  in  the  rapturous  cer 
tainty  that  she  was  going  to  open  the  door, 
and  send  her  anger  forth.  But  Amelia  only 
took  down  his  butternut  coat  from  the  nail, 
and  returned  with  it,  holding  it  ready  for  him 
to  insert  his  arms. 

"  Here 's  your  coat,"  said  she,  with  that 
strange,  deceptive  calmness.  "  Stan'  up,  an' 
I  '11  help  you  put  it  on." 


A   MARCH   WIND  39 

Josiah  looked  at  her  with  helplessly  open 
mouth,  and  eyes  so  vacuous  that  Amelia  felt, 
even  at  that  moment,  the  grim  humor  of  his 
plight. 

"I  was  in  hopes  he'd  harness  up"  — he 
began,  but  she  ruthlessly  cut  him  short. 

"  Stan'  up  !  Here,  put  t'  other  arm  in  fust. 
This  han'kercher  yours?  Goes  round  your 
neck?  There  'tis.  Here's  your  hat.  Got 
any  mittens  ?  There  they  be,  in  your  pocket. 
This  way.  This  is  the  door  you  come  in,  an* 
this  is  the  door  you  '11  go  out  of."  She  pre 
ceded  him,  her  head  thrown  up,  her  shoulders 
back.  Amelia  had  no  idea  of  dramatic  values, 
but  she  was  playing  an  effective  part.  She 
reached  the  door  and  flung  it  open,  but  Josiah, 
a  poor  figure  in  its  huddled  capes,  still  stood 
abjectly  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen.  "  Come  !  " 
she  called  peremptorily.  "  Come,  Josiah  Pease ! 
Out  you  go."  And  Josiah  went,  though,  con- 
trary  to  his  usual  habit,  he  did  not  talk.  He 
quavered  uncertainly  down  the  steps,  and 
Amelia  called  a  halt.  "  Josiah  Pease  !  " 

He  turned,  and  looked  up  at  her.  His 
mouth  had  dropped,  and  he  was  nothing  but  a 
very  helpless  old  child.  Vicious  as  he  was, 
Amelia  realized  the  mental  poverty  of  her 
adversary,  and  despised  herself  for  despising 
him.  "  Josiah  Pease  !  "  she  repeated.  "  This 
is  the  end.  Don't  you  darken  my  doors  ag'in. 
I've  done  with  you,— egg  an'  bird!"  She 


40  TIVERTON  TALES 

closed  the  door,  shutting  out  Josiah  and  the 
keen  spring  wind,  and  went  back  to  the  win 
dow,  to  watch  him  down  the  drive.  His  back 
looked  poor  and  mean.  It  emphasized  the  pet 
tiness  of  her  victory.  Even  at  that  moment, 
she  realized  that  it  was  the  poorer  part  of  her 
which  had  resented  attack  on  a  citadel  which 
should  be  impregnable  as  time  itself.  Just 
then  Enoch  stepped  into  the  kitchen  behind 
her,  and  his  voice  jarred  upon  her  tingling 
nerves. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  more  jovially  than  he  was 
wont  to  speak,  "  I  guess  I  Ve  made  a  good 
trade  for  ye.  Company  gone?  Come  here 
an'  se'  down  while  I  eat,  an'  I  '11  tell  ye  all 
about  it." 

Amelia  turned  about  and  walked  slowly  up 
to  him,  by  no  volition  of  her  conscious  self. 
Again  love,  that  august  creature,  veiled  itself 
in  an  unjust  anger,  because  it  was  love  and 
nothing  else. 

"  You  Ve  made  a  good  bargain,  have  you  ?  " 
she  repeated.  "  You  Ve  sold  my  cows,  an* 
had  'em  drove  off  the  place  without  if  or  but. 
That 's  what  you  call  a  good  bargain  !  "  Her 
voice  frightened  her.  It  amazed  the  man  who 
heard.  These  two  middle-aged  people  were 
waking  up  to  passions  neither  had  felt  in 
youth.  Life  was  strong  in  them  because  love 
was  there. 

"Why,  'Melia!"  said  the  man.  "Why, 
'Melia!" 


A   MARCH   WIND  41 

Amelia  was  hurried  on  before  the  wind  of 
her  destiny.  Her  voice  grew  sharper.  Little 
white  stripes,  like  the  lashes  from  a  whip, 
showed  themselves  on  her  cheeks.  She  seemed 
to  be  speaking  from  a  dream,  which  left  her 
ao  will  save  that  of  speaking. 

"  It 's  been  so  ever  sence  you  set  foot  in 
this  house.  Have  I  had  my  say  once  ?  Have  I 
been  mistress  on  my  own  farm  ?  No  !  You 
took  the  head  o*  things,  an'  you  've  kep'  it. 
What's  mine  is  yours." 

Her  triumph  over  Josiah  seemed  to  be 
strangely  repeated  ;  the  scene  was  almost  iden 
tical.  The  man  before  her  stood  with  his 
hands  hanging  by  his  sides,  the  fingers  limp, 
in  an  attitude  of  the  profoundest  patience.  He 
was  thinking  things  out.  She  knew  that. 
Her  hurrying  mind  anticipated  all  he  might 
have  said,  and  would  not.  And  because  he 
had  too  abiding  a  gentleness  to  say  it,  the 
insanity  of  her  anger  rose  anew.  "  I  'm  the 
laughin'-stock  o'  the  town,"  she  went  on  bit 
terly.  "  There  ain't  a  man  or  woman  in  it 
that  don't  say  I  Ve  married  a  tramp." 

Enoch  winced,  with  a  sharp,  brief  quiver  of 
the  lips ;  but  before  she  could  dwell  upon  the 
sight,  to  the  resurrection  of  her  tenderness,  he 
turned  away  from  her,  and  went  over  to  the 
bench. 

"I  guess  I'll  move  this  back  where 't  was," 
he  said,  in  a  very  still  voice,  and  Amelia  stood 


42  TIVERTON  TALES 

watching  him,  conscious  of  a  new  and  bitterer 
pang  :  a  fierce  contempt  that  he  could  go  on 
with  his  poor,  methodical  way  of  living,  when 
greater  issues  waited  at  the  door.  He  moved 
the  bench  into  its  old  place,  gathered  up  the 
clock,  with  its  dismantled  machinery,  and  car 
ried  it  into  the  attic.  She  heard  his  step  on 
the  stairs,  regular  and  unhalting,  and  despised 
him  again  ;  but  in  all  those  moments,  the 
meaning  of  his  movements  had  not  struck  her. 
When  he  came  back,  he  brought  in  the  broom  ; 
and  while  he  swept  up  the  fragments  of  his 
work,  Amelia  stood  and  watched  him.  He 
carried  the  dustpan  and  broom  away  to  their 
places,  but  he  did  not  reenter  the  room.  He 
spoke  to  her  from  the  doorway,  and  she  could 
not  see  his  face. 

"  I  guess  you  won't  mind  if  I  leave  the  clock 
as  't  is.  It  needs  some  new  cogs,  an'  if  any 
body  should  come  along,  he  would  n't  find  it 
any  the  worse  for  what  I  've  done.  I  Ve  jest 
thought  it  over  about  the  cows,  an'  I  guess  I  '11 
leave  that,  too,  jest  as  it  is.  I  made  you  a 
good  bargain,  an'  when  you  come  to  think  it 
over,  I  guess  you  'd  ruther  it  'd  stan'  so  than 
run  the  resk  of  havin'  folks  make  a  handle  of 
it.  Good-by,  'Melia.  You've  been  good  to 
me,  —  better  'n  anybody  ever  was  in  the  world." 

She  heard  his  step,  swift  and  steady,  through 
the  shed  and  out  at  the  door.  He  was  gone. 
Amelia  turned  to  the  window,  to  look  after 


A   MARCH   WIND  43 

him,  and  then,  finding  he  had  not  taken  the 
driveway,  she  ran  into  the  bedroom,  to  gaze 
across  the  fields.  There  he  was,  a  lonely 
figure,  striking  vigorously  out.  He  seemed 
glad  to  go  ;  and  seeing  his  haste,  her  heart 
hardened  against  him.  She  gave  a  little  dis 
dainful  laugh. 

"Well,"  said   Amelia,    "that's    over.     I'll 
wash  my  dishes  now." 

Coming  back  into  the  kitchen,  with  an  as 
sured  step,  she  moved  calmly  about  her  work, 
as  if  the  world  were  there  to  see.  Her  pride 
enveloped  her  like  a  garment.  She  handled 
the  dishes  as  if  she  scorned  them,  yet  her 
method  and  care  were  exquisite.  Presently 
there  came  a  little  imperative  pounding  at  the 
side  door.  It  was  Rosie.  She  had  forgotten 
the  cloudy  atmosphere  of  the  house,  and  being 
cold,  had  come,  in  all  her  old,  imperious  cer 
tainty  of  love  and  warmth,  to  be  let  in.  Amelia 
stopped  short  in  her  work,  and  an  ugly  frown 
roughened  her  brow.  Josiah  Pease,  with  all 
his  evil  imaginings,  seemed  to  be  at  her  side, 
his  lean  forefinger  pointing  out  the  baseness 
of  mankind.  In  that  instant,  she  realized 
where  Enoch  had  gone.  He  meant  to  take 
the  three  o'clock  train  where  it  halted,  down 
at  the  Crossing,  and  he  had  left  the  child 
behind.  Tearing  off  her  apron,  she  threw  it 
over  her  head.  She  ran  to  the  door,  and,  open 
ing  it,  almost  knocked  the  child  down,  in  her 


44  TIVERTON   TALES 

haste  to  be  out  and  away.  Rosie  had  lifted 
her  frosty  face  in  a  smile  of  welcome,  but 
Amelia  did  not  see  it.  She  gathered  the  child 
in  her  arms,  and  hurried  down  the  steps, 
through  the  bars,  and  along  the  narrow  path 
toward  the  pine  woods.  The  sharp  brown 
stubble  of  the  field  merged  into  the  thin 
grasses  of  the  greener  lowland,  and  she  heard 
the  trickling  of  the  little  dark  brook,  where 
gentians  lived  in  the  fall,  and  where,  still 
earlier,  the  cardinal  flower  and  forget-me-not 
crowded  in  lavish  color.  She  knew  every  inch 
of  the  way ;  her  feet  had  an  intelligence  of 
their  own.  The  farm  was  a  part  of  her  in 
herited  life ;  but  at  that  moment,  she  prized 
it  as  nothing  beside  that  newly  discovered 
wealth  which  she  was  rushing  to  cast  away. 
Rosie  had  not  striven  in  the  least  against  her 
capture.  She  knew  too  much  of  life,  in  some 
patient  fashion,  to  resist  it,  in  any  of  its  phases. 
She  put  her  arms  about  Amelia's  neck,  to  cling 
the  closer,  and  Amelia,  turning  her  face  while 
she  staggered  on,  set  her  lips  passionately  to 
the  little  sleeve. 

"You  cold?"  asked  she  —  "dear?"  But 
she  told  herself  it  was  a  kiss  of  farewell. 

She  stepped  deftly  over  the  low  stone  wall 
into  the  Harden  woods,  and  took  the  slippery 
downward  path,  over  pine  needles.  Sometimes 
a  rounded  root  lay  above  the  surface,  and  she 
stumbled  on  it ;  but  the  child  only  tightened 


A   MARCH   WIND  45 

her  grasp.  Amelia  walked  and  ran  with  the 
prescience  of  those  without  fear ;  for  her  eyes 
were  unseeing,  and  her  thoughts  hurrying 
forward,  she  depicted  to  herself  the  little  drama 
at  its  close.  She  would  be  at  the  Crossing  and 
away  again,  before  the  train  came  in  ;  nobody 
need  guess  her  trouble.  Enoch  must  be  there, 
waiting.  She  would  drop  the  child  at  his  side, 
—  the  child  he  had  deserted,  —  and  before  he 
could  say  a  word,  turn  back  to  her  desolate 
home.  And  at  the  thought,  she  kissed  the 
little  sleeve  again,  and  thought  how  good  it 
would  be  if  she  could  only  be  there  again, 
though  alone,  in  the  shielding  walls  of  her 
house,  and  the  parting  were  over  and  done. 
She  felt  her  breath  come  chokingly. 

"You'll  have  to  walk  a  minute,"  she  whis 
pered,  setting  the  child  down  at  her  side. 
"There's  time  enough.  I  can't  hurry." 

At  that  instant,  she  felt  the  slight  warning 
of  the  ground  beneath  her  feet,  shaken  by 
another  step,  and  saw,  through  the  pines,  her 
husband  running  toward  her.  Rosie  started 
to  meet  him,  with  a  little  cry,  but  Amelia  thrust 
her  aside,  and  hurried  swiftly  on  in  advance, 
her  eyes  feeding  upon  his  face.  It  had  mirac 
ulously  changed.  Sorrow,  the  great  despair 
of  life,  had  eaten  into  it,  and  aged  it  more  than 
years  of  patient  want.  His  eyes  were  like 
lamps  burned  low,  and  the  wrinkles  under 
them  had  guttered  into  misery.  But  to  Amelia, 


46  TIVERTON   TALES 

his  look  had  all  the  sweet  familiarity  of  faces 
we  shall  see  in  Paradise.  She  did  not  stop 
to  interpret  his  meeting  glance,  nor  ask  him 
to  read  hers.  Coming  upon  him  like  a  whirl 
wind,  she  put  both  her  shaking  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  laid  her  wet  face  to  his. 

"Enoch!  Enoch!"  she  cried  sharply,  "in 
the  name  of  God,  come  home  with  me ! " 

She  felt  him  trembling  under  her  hands,  but 
he  only  put  up  his  own,  and  very  gently  loosed 
the  passionate  grasp.  "  There  !  there  !  "  he 
said,  in  a  whisper.  "  Don't  feel  so  bad.  It 's 
all  right.  I  jest  turned  back  for  Rosie.  Mebbe 
you  won't  believe  it,  but  I  forgot  all  about 
her." 

He  lowered  his  voice,  for  Rosie  had  gone 
close  to  him,  and  laid  her  hands  clingingly 
upon  his  coat.  She  did  not  understand,  but 
she  could  wait.  A  branch  had  almost  barred 
the  path,  and  Amelia,  her  dull  gaze  fallen, 
noted  idly  how  bright  the  moss  had  kept,  and 
how  the  scarlet  cups  enriched  it.  Her  strength 
would  not  sustain  her,  void  of  his,  and  she 
sank  down  on  the  wood,  her  hands  laid  limply 
in  her  lap.  "  Enoch,"  she  said,  from  her  new 
sense  of  the  awe  of  life,  "  don't  lay  up  any 
thing  ag'inst  me.  You  could  n't  if  you  knew." 

"  Knew  what  ?  "  asked  Enoch  gently.  He 
did  not  forget  that  circumstance  had  laid  a 
blow  at  the  roots  of  his  being ;  but  he  could 
not  turn  away  while  she  still  suffered. 


A   MARCH   WIND  47 

Amelia  began,  stumblingly,  — 

"He  talked  about  you.  I  couldn't  stan' 
it." 

"  Did  you  believe  it  ?  "  he  queried  sternly. 

"There  wa'n't  anything  to  believe.  That's 
neither  here  nor  there.  But — Enoch,  if  any 
body  should  cut  my  right  hand  off  —  Enoch  "  — 
Her  voice  fell  brokenly.  She  was  a  New  Eng 
land  woman,  accustomed  neither  to  analyze  nor 
talk.  She  could  only  suffer  in  the  elemental 
way  of  dumb  things  who  sometimes  need  a 
language  of  the  heart.  One  thing  she  knew. 
The  man  was  hers  ;  and  if  she  reft  herself 
away  from  him,  then  she  must  die. 

He  had  taken  Rosie's  hand,  and  Amelia  was 
aware  that  he  turned  away. 

"  I  don't  want  to  bring  up  anything,"  he 
said  hesitatingly,  "but  I  couldn't  stan'  bein' 
any  less  'n  other  men  would,  jest  because  the 
woman  had  the  money,  an'  I  had  n't.  I  dunno  's 
't  was  exactly  fair  about  the  cows,  but  some 
how  you  kind  o'  set  me  at  the  head  o'  things, 
in  the  beginnin',  an'  it  never  come  into  my 
mind"  — 

Amelia  sat  looking  wanly  past  him.  She 
began  to  see  how  slightly  argument  would 
serve.  Suddenly  the  conventions  of  life  fell 
away  from  her  and  left  her  young. 

"Enoch,"  she  said  vigorously,  "you've  got 
to  take  me.  Somehow,  you  've  got  to.  Talkin' 
won't  make  you  see  that  what  I  said  never 


48  TIVERTON   TALES 

meant  no  more  than  the  wind  that  blows.  But 
you've  got  to  keep  me,  or  remember,  all  your 
life,  how  you  murdered  me  by  goin'  away. 
The  farm 's  come  between  us.  Le's  leave  it ! 
It 's  'most  time  for  the  cars.  You  take  me 
with  you  now.  If  you  tramp,  I  '11  tramp.  If 
you  work  out,  so  '11  I.  But  where  you  go,  I  've 
got  to  go,  too." 

Some  understanding  of  her  began  to  creep 
upon  him  ;  he  dropped  the  child's  hand,  and 
came  a  step  nearer.  Enoch,  in  these  latter 
days  of  his  life,  had  forgotten  how  to  smile ; 
but  now  a  sudden,  mirthful  gleam  struck  upon 
his  face,  and  lighted  it  with  the  candles  of 
hope.  He  stood  beside  her,  and  Amelia  did 
not  look  at  him. 

"  Would  you  go  with  me,  'Melia  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  I  'm  goin',"  said  she  doggedly.  Her  case 
had  been  lost,  but  she  could  not  abandon  it. 
She  seemed  to  be  holding  to  it  in  the  face  of 
righteous  judgment. 

"  S'pose  I  don't  ask  you  ?" 

"I'll  foller  on  behind." 

"Don't  ye  want  to  go  home,  an'  lock  up, 
an*  git  a  bunnit  ? " 

She  put  one  trembling  hand  to  the  calico 
apron  about  her  head. 

"  No." 

"  Don't  ye  want  to  leave  the  key  with  some 
o'  the  neighbors  ?  " 


A   MARCH   WIND  49 

"  I  don't  want  anything  in  the  world  but 
you,"  owned  Amelia  shamelessly. 

Enoch  bent  suddenly,  and  drew  her  to  her 
feet.  "  'Melia,"  said  he,  "you  look  up  here." 

She  raised  her  drawn  face  and  looked  at 
him,  not  because  she  wished,  but  because  she 
must.  In  her  abasement,  there  was  no  obe 
dience  which  she  would  deny  him.  But  she 
could  only  see  that  he  was  strangely  happy,  and 
so  the  more  removed  from  her  own  despair. 
Enoch  swiftly  passed  his  arm  about  her,  and 
turned  her  homeward.  He  laughed  a  little. 
Being  a  man,  he  must  laugh  when  that  bitter 
ache  in  the  throat  presaged  more  bitter  tears. 

"  Come,  'Melia,"  said  he,  "  come  along 
home,  an'  I  '11  tell  you  all  about  the  cows.  I 
made  a  real  good  bargain.  Come,  Rosie." 

Amelia  could  not  answer.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  love  had  dealt  with  her  as  she  had  not 
deserved ;  and  she  went  on,  exalted,  afraid  of 
breaking  the  moment,  and  knowing  only  that 
he  was  hers  again.  But  just  before  they  left 
the  shadow  of  the  woods,  he  stopped,  holding 
her  still,  and  their  hearts  beat  together. 

"  'Melia,"  said  he  brokenly,  "  I  guess  I  never 
told  you  in  so  many  words,  but  it 's  the  truth : 
if  God  Almighty  was  to  make  me  a  woman, 
I  'd  have  her  you,  not  a  hair  altered.  I  never 
cared  a  straw  for  any  other.  I  know  that  now. 
You  're  all  there  is  in  the  world." 

When  they  walked  up  over  the  brown  field, 


50  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  sun  lay  very  warmly  there  with  a  promise 
of  spring  fulfilled.  The  wind  had  miracu 
lously  died,  and  soft  clouds  ran  over  the  sky  in 
flocks.  Rosie  danced  on  ahead,  singing  her 
queer  little  song,  and  Enoch  struggled  with 
himself  to  speak  the  word  his  wife  might 
wish. 

"'Melia,"  said  he  at  last,  "there  ain't  any 
thing  in  my  life  I  could  n't  tell  you.  I  jest 
ain't  dwelt  on  it,  that's  all.  If  you  want  to 
have  me  go  over  it  "  — 

"  I  don't  want  anything,"  said  Amelia  firmly. 
Her  eyes  were  suffused,  and  yet  lambent.  The 
light  in  them  seemed  to  be  drinking  up  their 
tears.  Her  steps,  she  knew,  were  set  within 
a  shining  way.  At  the  door  only  she  paused 
and  fixed  him  with  a  glance.  "Enoch,"  said 
she  threateningly,  "  whose  cows  were  them 
you  sold  to-day  ? " 

He  opened  his  lips,  but  she  looked  him 
down.  One  word  he  rejected,  and  then  an 
other.  His  cheeks  wrinkled  up  into  obstinate 
smiling,  and  he  made  the  grimace  of  a  child 
over  its  bitter  draught. 

"  'Melia,  it  ain't  fair,"  he  complained.  "  No, 
it  ain't.  I  '11  take  one  of  'em,  if  you  say  so, 
or  I  '11  own  it  don't  make  a  mite  o'  difference 
whose  they  be.  But  as  to  lyin'  "  — 

"Say  it!"  commanded  Amelia.  "Whose 
were  they  ? " 

"Mine!"    said   Enoch.     They  broke  into 


A   MARCH   WIND  51 

laughter,  like  children,  and  held  each  other's 
hands. 

"  I  ain't  had  a  mite  o'  dinner,"  said  Amelia 
happily,  as  they  stepped  together  into  the 
kitchen.  "  Nor  you  !  An*  Rosie  did  n't  eat 
her  pie.  You  blaze  up  the  fire,  an'  I  '11  fry 
some  eggs." 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST 

"  Now  we  Ve  got  red  o'  the  men-folks,"  said 
Mrs.  Robbins,  "  le's  se'  down  an'  talk  it  over." 
The  last  man  of  all  the  crowd  accustomed  to 
seek  the  country  store  at  noontime  was  closing 
the  church  door  behind  him  as  she  spoke. 
"Here,  Ezry,"  she  called  after  him,  "you 
hurry  up,  or  you  won't  git  there  afore  cockcrow 
to-morrer,  an'  I  would  n't  have  that  letter  miss 
for  a  good  deal." 

Mrs.  Robbins  was  slight,  and  hung  on  wires, 
—  so  said  her  neighbors.  They  also  remarked 
that  her  nose  was  as  picked  as  a  pin,  and  that 
anybody  with  them  freckles  and  that  red  hair 
was  sure  to  be  smart.  You  could  always  tell. 
Mrs.  Robbins  knew  her  reputation  for  extreme 
acuteness,  and  tried  to  live  up  to  it. 

"  Law  !  don't  you  go  to  stirrin'  on  him  up," 
said  Mrs.  Solomon  Page  comfortably,  putting 
on  the  cover  of  her  butter-box,  which  had  con 
tained  the  family  lunch.  "  If  the  store 's 
closed,  he  can  slip  the  letter  into  the  box,  an' 
three  cents  with  it,  an'  they  '11  put  a  stamp  on 
in  the  mornin'." 

By  this  time,  there  was  a  general  dusting  of 
crumbs  from  Sunday  gowns,  a  settling  of  boxes 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  53 

and  baskets,  and  the  feminine  portion  of  the 
East  Tiverton  congregation,  according  to  an 
cient  custom,  passed  into  the  pews  nearest  the 
stove,  and  arranged  itself  more  compactly  for 
the  midday  gossip.  This  was  a  pleasant  inter 
lude  in  the  religious  decorum  of  the  day ;  no 
Sunday  came  when  the  men  did  not  trail  off 
to  the  store  for  their  special  council,  and  the 
women,  with  a  restful  sense  of  sympathy 
alloyed  by  no  disturbing  element,  settled  down 
for  an  exclusively  feminine  view  of  the  universe. 
Mrs.  Page  took  the  head  of  the  pew,  and  dis 
posed  her  portly  frame  so  as  to  survey  the 
scene  with  ease.  She  was  a  large  woman, 
with  red  cheeks  and  black,  shining  hair.  One 
powerful  arm  lay  along  the  back  of  the  pew, 
and,  as  she  talked,  she  meditatively  beat  the 
rail  in  time.  Her  sister,  Mrs.  Ellison,  accord 
ing  to  an  intermittent  custom,  had  come  over 
from  Saltash  to  attend  church,  and  incidentally 
to  indulge  in  a  family  chat.  It  was  said  that 
Tilly  rode  over  about  jes'  so  often  to  get  the 
Tiverton  news  for  her  son  Leonard,  who  fur 
nished  local  items  to  the  Sudleigh  "Star;"  and, 
indeed,  she  made  no  secret  of  sitting  down 
in  social  conclave  with  a  bit  of  paper  and  a 
worn  pencil  in  hand,  to  jog  her  memory.  She, 
too,  had  smooth  black  hair,  but  her  dark  eyes 
were  illumined  by  no  steadfast  glow ;  they 
snapped  and  shone  with  alert  intelligence,  and 
her  great  forehead  dominated  the  rest  of  her 


54  TIVERTON   TALES 

face,  scarred  with  a  thousand  wrinkles  by  in- 
tensity  of  nature  rather  than  by  time.  A 
pleasant  warmth  had  diffused  itself  over  the 
room,  so  cold  during  the  morning  service  that 
foot-stoves  had  been  in  requisition.  Bonnet 
strings  were  thrown  back  and  shawls  unpinned. 
The  little  world  relaxed  and  lay  at  ease. 

"  What 's  the  news  over  your  way,  sister  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Ellison,  as  an  informal  preliminary. 

"  Tilly  don't  want  to  give ;  she  'd  ruther 
take,"  said  Mrs.  Baxter,  before  the  other  could 
answer.  "  She  's  like  old  Mis'  Pepper.  Seliny 
Hazlitt  went  over  there,  when  she  was  fust 
married  an'  come  to  the  neighborhood,  an' 
asked  her  if  she  'd  got  a  sieve  to  put  squash 
through.  Poor  Seliny  !  she  did  n't  know  a  sieve 
from  a  colander,  in  them  days." 

"I  guess  she  found  out  soon  enough,"  volun 
teered  Mrs.  Page.  "He  was  one  o'  them  kind 
o'  men  that  can  keep  house  as  well  as  a  woman. 
I  'd  ruther  live  with  a  born  fool." 

"Well,  old  Mis'  Pepper  she  ris  up  an* 
smoothed  down  her  apron  (recollect  them  lit 
tle  dots  she  used  to  wear  ?  —  made  her  look  as 
broad  as  a  barn  door !),  an'  she  says,  '  Yes, 
we  've  got  a  sieve  for  flour,  an'  a  sieve  for  meal, 
an'  a  sieve  for  rye,  an'  a  sieve  for  blue-monge, 
an'  we  could  have  a  sieve  for  squash  if  we  was 
a  mind  to,  but  I  dont  wish  to  lend:  That's 
the  way  with  Tilly.  She  's  terrible  cropein' 
about  news,  but  she  won't  lend" 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  55 

"How's  your  cistern?"  asked  Mrs.  John 
Cole,  who,  with  an  exclusively  practical  turn 
of  mind,  saw  no  reason  why  talk  should  be 
consecutive.  "  Got  all  the  water  you  want  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Page ;  "that  last  rain  rilled 
it  up  higher  'n  it 's  been  sence  November." 

But  Mrs.  Ellison  was  not  to  be  thrown  off 
the  track. 

"Ain't  there  been  consid'able  talk  over  here 
about  Parson  Bond?"  she  asked. 

Miss  Sally  Ware,  a  plump  and  pleasing 
maiden  lady,  whose  gold  beads  lay  in  a  crease 
especially  designed  for  them,  stirred  uneasily 
in  her  seat  and  gave  her  sisters  an  appealing 
glance.  But  she  did  not  speak,  beyond  utter 
ing  a  little  dissentient  noise  in  her  throat.  She 
was  loyal  to  her  minister.  An  embarrassed 
silence  fell  like  a  vapor  over  the  assemblage. 
Everybody  longed  to  talk  ;  nobody  wanted  the 
responsibility  of  beginning.  Mrs.  Page  was 
the  first  to  gather  her  forces. 

"Now,  Tilly,"  said  she,  with  decision,  "you 
ain't  comin'  over  here  to  tole  us  into  haulin' 
our  own  pastor  over  the  coals,  unless  you  '11 
say  right  out  you  won't  pass  it  on  to  Saltash 
folks.  As  for  puttin*  it  in  the  paper,  it  ain't 
the  kind  you  can." 

Tilly's  eyes  burned. 

"  I  guess  I  know  when  to  speak  an'  when 
not  to,"  she  remarked.  "  Now  don't  beat 
about  the  bush  ;  the  men-folks  '11  be  back  to- 


56  TIVERTON   TALES 

rights.     I  never  in  my  life  give  Len  a  mite  o' 
news  he  could  n't  ha'  picked  up  for  himself." 

"  Well,  some  master  silly  pieces  have  got 
into  the  paper,  fust  an'  last,"  said  Mrs.  Rob- 
bins.  "  Recollect  how  your  Len  come  'way 
over  here  to  git  his  shoes  cobbled,  the  week 
arter  Tom  Brewer  moved  int'  the  Holler,  an1 
folks  had  n't  got  over  swappin'  the  queer  things 
he  said  ?  an'  when  Tom  got  the  shoes  done 
afore  he  promised,  Len  says  to  him,  *  You  're 
better  'n  your  word.'  «  Well,'  says  Tom,  '  I  flew 
at  'em  with  all  the  venom  o*  my  specie.'  An' 
it  wa'n't  a  fortnight  afore  that  speech  come 
out  in  a  New  York  paper,  an'  then  the  Sud- 
leigh  '  Star  '  got  hold  on  't,  an'  so  't  went.  If 
folks  want  that  kind  o'  thing,  they  can  git  a 
plenty,  /say."  She  set  her  lips  defiantly,  and 
looked  round  on  the  assembled  group.  This 
was  something  she  had  meant  to  mention; 
now  she  had  done  it. 

The  informal  meeting  was  aghast.  A  flavor 
of  robust  humor  was  accustomed  to  enliven  it, 
but  not  of  a  sort  to  induce  dissension. 

"There!  there!"  murmured  Sally  Ware. 
"It's  the  Sabbath  day!" 

"Well,  nobody's  breakin'  of  it,  as  I  know 
of,"  said  Mrs.  Ellison.  Her  eyes  were  brighter 
than  usual,  but  she  composed  herself  into  a 
careful  disregard  of  annoyance.  When  desire 
of  news  assailed  her,  she  could  easily  conceal 
her  personal  resentments,  cannily  sacrificing 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  57 

small  issues  to  great.  "  I  guess  there 's  no 
danger  o'  Parson  Bond's  gittin'  into  the  paper, 
so  long 's  he  behaves  himself ;  but  if  anybody 's 
got  eyes,  they  can't  help  seein'.  I  hadn't  been 
in  the  Bible  class  five  minutes  afore  I  guessed 
how  he  was  carry  in'  on.  Has  he  begun  to  go 
with  Isabel  North,  an'  his  wife  not  cold  in  her 
grave  ? " 

"  Well,  I  think,  for  my  part,  he  does  want 
Isabel,"  said  Mrs.  Robbins  sharply,  "  an'  I  say 
it 's  a  sin  an'  a  shame.  Why,  she  ain't  twenty, 
an*  he  's  sixty  if  he  's  a  day.  My  soul !  Sally 
Ware,  you  better  be  settin'  your  cap  for  my 
William  Henry.  He  's  'most  nineteen." 

Miss  Ware  flushed,  and  her  plump  hands 
tightened  upon  each  other  under  her  shawl. 
She  was  never  entirely  at  ease  in  the  atmo 
sphere  of  these  assured  married  women  ;  it  was 
always  a  little  bracing. 

"Well,  how's  she  take  it?"  asked  Tilly, 
turning  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Tickled  to 
death,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  she  ain't ! "  broke  in  a  younger 
woman,  whose  wedding  finery  was  not  yet  out 
worn.  "  She  's  most  sick  over  it,  and  so  she 
has  been  ever  since  her  sister  married  and 
went  away.  I  believe  she  'd  hate  the  sight  of 
him,  if  't  was  n't  the  minister  ;  but  '/  is  the 
minister,  and  when  she  's  put  face  to  face  with 
him,  she  can't  help  saying  yes  and  no." 

"I  dunno',"  said  Mrs.  Page,  with  her  uno 


58  TIVERTON   TALES 

tuous  laugh.  "  Remember  the  party  over  to 
Tiverton  t'  other  night,  an'  them  tarts  ?  You 
see,  Rosanna  Maria  Pike  asked  us  all  over  ;  an' 
you  know  how  flaky  her  pie -crust  is.  Well, 
the  minister  was  stan'in'  side  of  Isabel  when 
the  tarts  was  passed.  He  was  sort  o'  shinin' 
up  to  her  that  night,  an'  I  guess  he  felt  a  mite 
twittery ;  so  when  the  tarts  come  to  him,  he 
reached  out  kind  o'  delicate,  with  his  little 
ringer  straight  out,  an'  tried  to  take  one.  An' 
a  ring  o'  crust  come  off  on  his  finger.  Then 
he  tried  it  ag'in,  an'  got  another  ring.  Every 
body  'd  ha'  laughed,  if  it  had  n't  been  the  min 
ister  ;  but  Isabel  she  tickled  right  out,  an* 
says, '  You  don't  take  jelly,  do  you,  Mr.  Bond  ? ' 
An'  he  turned  as  red  as  fire,  an'  says,  '  No,  I 
thank  you.' " 

"  She  would  n't  ha'  said  it,  if  she  had  n't  ha' 
been  so  nervous,"  remarked  Miss  Sally,  taking 
a  little  parcel  of  peppermints  from  her  pocket, 
and  proceeding  to  divide  them. 

"  No,  I  don't  s'pose  she  would,"  owned  Mrs. 
Page  reflectively.  "  But  if  what  they  say  is 
true,  she  's  been  pretty  sassy  to  him,  fust  an' 
last.  Why,  you  know,  no  matter  how  the  par 
son  begins  his  prayer,  he  's  sure  to  end  up  on 
7  one  line :  '  Lord,  we  thank  Thee  we  have  not 
been  left  to  live  by  the  dim  light  of  natur'.' 
'Lisha  Cole,  when  he  come  home  from  Illinois, 
walked  over  here  to  meetin',  to  surprise  some 
o'  the  folks.  He  waited  in  the  entry  to  ketch 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  59 

'em  comin'  out,  an'  the  fust  word  he  heard  was, 
'  Lord,  we  thank  Thee  we  have  not  been  left 
to  live  by  the  dim  light  of  naturV  'Lisha  said 
he  'd  had  time  to  be  shipwrecked  (you  know 
he  went  to  California  fust  an'  made  the  v'yage), 
an'  be  married  twice,  an'  lay  by  enough  to 
keep  him,  and  come  home  poor  ;  but  when  he 
heard  that,  he  felt  as  if  the  world  hadn't 
moved  sence  he  started." 

Sally  Ware  dropped  her  mitten,  to  avoid 
listening  and  the  necessity  of  reply  ;  it  was  too 
evident  that  the  conversational  tone  was  be 
coming  profane.  But  Mrs.  Page's  eyes  were 
gleaming  with  pure  dramatic  joy,  and  she  con 
tinued  :  — 

"  Well,  a  fortnight  or  so  ago  he  went  over 
to  see  Isabel,  an'  Sadie  an'  her  husband  hap 
pened  to  be  there.  They  were  all  settin'  purrin* 
in  the  dark,  because  they  'd  forgot  to  send 
for  any  kerosene.  '  No  light  ? '  says  he,  hittin* 
his  head  ag'inst  the  chimbly-piece  goin'  in,  — 
'no  light?'  'No,'  says  Isabel,  'none  but  the 
dim  light  of  natur'.'  " 

There  was  a  chime  of  delighted  laughter  in 
many  keys.  The  company  felt  the  ease  of  un 
restricted  speech.  They  wished  the  nooning 
might  be  indefinitely  prolonged. 

"  Sometimes  I  think  she  sets  out  to  make 
him  believe  she  's  wuss  'n  she  is,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Cole.  "  Remember  how  she  carried  on 
last  Sabbath  ? " 


60  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  I  guess  so  !  "  returned  Mrs.  Page.  "  You 
see,  Tilly,  he  's  kind  o'  pushin'  her  for'ard  to 
make  her  seem  more  suitable,  —  he  'd  like  to 
have  her  as  old  as  the  hills  !  —  an'  nothin' 
would  do  but  she  must  go  into  the  Bible  class. 
Ain't  a  member  that 's  under  fifty,  but  there 
that  little  young  thing  sets,  cheeks  red  as  a 
beet,  an'  the  elder  asks  her  questions,  when 
he  gits  to  her,  as  if  he  was  coverin'  on  her 
over  with  cotton  wool.  Well,  last  Sabbath  old 
Deacon  Pitts  —  le's  see,  there  ain't  any  o'  his 
folks  present,  be  they  ?  —  well,  he  was  late,  an' 
he  had  n't  looked  at  his  lesson  besides.  'T  was 
the  fust  chapter  in  Ruth,  where  it  begins,  '  In 
the  days  when  the  judges  ruled.'  You  recol 
lect  Naomi  told  the  two  darters  they  'd  got  to 
set  sail,  an'  then  the  Bible  says,  '  they  lifted  up 
their  voice  an'  wept.'  '  Who  wept  ? '  says  the 
parson  to  Deacon  Pitts,  afore  he  'd  got  fairly 
se*  down.  The  deacon  he  opened  his  Bible, 
an'  whirled  over  the  leaves.  'Who  wept, 
Brother  Pitts  ? '  says  the  parson  over  ag'in. 
Somebody  found  the  deacon  the  place,  an* 
p'inted.  He  was  growin'  redder  an'  redder,  an* 
his  spe'tacles  kep'  slippin'  down,  but  he  did 
manage  to  see  the  chapter  begun  suthin' 
about  the  judges.  Well,  by  that  time  parson 
spoke  out  sort  o'  sharp.  '  Brother  Pitts,'  says 
he,  '  who  wept  ? '  The  deacon  see  't  he  'd 
got  to  put  some  kind  of  a  face  on  't,  an'  he 
looked  up  an*  spoke  out,  as  bold  as  brass. 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  '61 

'I  conclude/  says  he,  — '  I  conclude 't  was  the 
judges ! ' ' 

Even  Miss  Ware  smiled  a  little,  and  adjusted 
her  gold  beads.  The  others  laughed  out  rich 
and  free. 

"Well,  what  'd  that  have  to  do  with  Isabel  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Ellison,  who  never  forgot  the  main 
issue. 

"Why,  everybody  else  drawed  down  their 
faces,  an'  tried  to  keep  'em  straight,  but  Isabel, 
she  begun  to  laugh,  an'  she  laughed  till  the 
tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks.  Deacon 
Pitts  was  real  put  out,  for  him,  an'  the  parson 
tried  not  to  take  no  notice.  But  it  went  so 
fur  he  could  n't  help  it,  an'  so  he  says,  *  Miss 
Isabel,  I  'm  real  pained,'  says  he.  But  't  was 
jest  as  you  'd  cuff  the  kitten  for  snarlin'  up 
your  yarn." 

"  Well,  what 's  Isabel  goin'  to  do  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Ellison.  "  S'pose  she  '11  marry  him  ? " 

"  Why,  she  won't  unless  he  tells  her  to. 
If  he  does,  I  dunno  but  she  '11  think  she 's 
got  to." 

"I  say  it's  a  shame,"  put  in  Mrs.  Robbins 
incisively ;  "  an'  Isabel  with  everything  all 
fixed  complete  so  't  she  could  have  a  good 
time.  Her  sister  's  well  married,  an'  Isabel 
stays  every  night  with  her.  Them  two  girls 
have  been  together  ever  sence  their  father 
died.  An'  here  she  's  got  the  school,  an'  she 's 
goin'  to  Sudleigh  every  Saturday  to  take  les- 


62  TIVERTON   TALES 

sons  in  readin',  an'  she'd  be  as  happy  as  a 
cricket,  if  on'y  he  'd  let  her  alone." 

"  She  reads  real  well,"  said  Mrs.  Ellison. 
"  She  come  over  to  our  sociable  an'  read  for 
us.  She  could  turn  herself  into  anybody  she  'd 
a  mind  to.  Len  wrote  a  notice  of  it  for  the 
'  Star.'  That 's  the  only  time  we  've  had  oys 
ters  over  our  way." 

"  I  'd  let  it  be  the  last,"  piped  up  a  thin  old 
lady,  with  a  long  figured  veil  over  her  face. 
"  It 's  my  opinion  oysters  lead  to  dancin'." 

"  Well,  let  'em  lead,"  said  optimistic  Mrs. 
Page.  "  I  guess  we  need  n't  foller." 

"  Them  that  have  got  rheumatism  in  their 
knees  can  stay  behind,"  said  the  young  married 
woman,  drawn  by  the  heat  of  the  moment 
into  a  daring  at  once  to  be  repented.  "  Mrs. 
Ellison,  you  're  getting  ahead  of  us  over  in  your 
parish.  They  say  you  sing  out  of  sheet  music." 

"Yes,  they  do  say  so,"  interrupted  the  old 
lady  under  the  figured  veil.  "  If  there 's  any 
worship  in  sheet  music,  I  'd  like  to  know  it ! " 

"  Come,  come ! "  said  peace-loving  Mrs. 
Page  ;  "  there  's  the  men  filin'  in.  We  must  n't 
let  'em  see  us  squabblin'.  They  think  we  're  a 
lot  o'  cacklin'  hens  anyway,  tickled  to  death 
over  a  piece  o'  chalk.  There's  Isabel,  now. 
She  's  goin'  to  look  like  her  aunt  Mary  Ellen, 
over  to  Saltash." 

Isabel  preceded  the  men,  who  were  pausing 
for  a  word  at  the  door,  and  went  down  the  aisle 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  63 

to  her  pew.  She  bowed  to  one  and  another, 
in  passing,  and  her  color  rose.  They  could 
not  altogether  restrain  their  guiltily  curious 
gaze,  and  Isabel  knew  she  had  been  talked 
over.  She  was  a  healthy-looking  girl,  with 
clear  blue  eyes  and  a  quantity  of  soft  brown 
hair.  Her  face  was  rather  large-featured,  and 
one  could  see  that,  if  the  world  went  well  with 
her,  she  would  be  among  those  who  develop 
beauty  in  middle  life. 

The  group  of  dames  dispersed  to  their  sev 
eral  pews,  and  settled  their  faces  into  expres 
sions  more  becoming  a  Sunday  mood.  The 
village  folk,  who  had  time  for  a  hot  dinner, 
dropped  in,  one  by  one,  and  by  and  by  the 
parson  came,  —  a  gaunt  man,  with  thick  red- 
brown  hair  streaked  with  dull  gray,  and  red- 
brown,  sanguine  eyes.  He  was  much  beloved, 
but  something  impulsive  and  unevenly  bal 
anced  in  his  nature  led  even  his  people  to 
regard  him  with  more  or  less  patronage.  He 
kept  his  eyes  rigorously  averted  from  Isabel's 
pew,  in  passing  ;  but  when  he  reached  the 
pulpit,  and  began  unpinning  his  heavy  gray 
shawl,  he  did  glance  at  her,  and  his  face  grew 
warm.  But  Isabel  did  not  look  at  him,  and  all 
through  the  service  she  sat  with  a  haughty 
pose  of  the  head,  gazing  down  into  her  lap. 
When  it  was  over,  she  waited  for  no  one,  since 
her  sister  was  not  at  church,  but  sped  away 
down  the  snowy  road. 


64  TIVERTON   TALES 

The  next  day,  Isabel  stayed  after  school,  and 
so  it  was  in  the  wintry  twilight  that  she  walked 
home,  guarded  by  the  few  among  her  flock  who 
had  been  kept  to  learn  the  inner  significance 
of  common  fractions.  Approaching  her  own 
house,  she  quickened  her  steps,  for  there  be 
fore  the  gate  (taken  from  its  hinges  and  rest 
ing  for  the  winter)  stood  a  blue  pung.  The 
horse  was  dozing,  his  Roman  nose  sunken 
almost  to  the  snow  at  his  feet.  He  looked  as 
if  he  had  come  to  stay.  Isabel  withdrew  her 
hand  from  the  persistent  little  fingers  clinging 
to  it. 

"  Good-night,  children,"  said  she.  "  I  guess 
I  Ve  got  company.  I  must  hurry  in.  Come 
bright  and  early  to-morrow." 

The  little  group  marched  away,  swathed  in 
comforters,  each  child  carrying  the  dinner-pail 
with  an  easy  swing.  Their  reddened  faces 
lighted  over  the  chorusing  good-nights,  and 
they  kept  looking  back,  while  Isabel  ran  up 
the  icy  path  to  her  own  door.  It  was  opened 
from  within,  before  she  reached  it,  and  a  tall, 
florid  woman,  with  smoothly  banded  hair,  stood 
there  to  receive  her.  Though  she  had  a  pow 
erful  frame,  she  gave  one  at  the  outset  an  im 
pression  of  weak  gentleness,  and  the  hands 
she  extended,  albeit  cordial,  were  somewhat 
limp.  She  wore  her  bonnet  still,  though  she 
had  untied  the  strings  and  thrown  them  back  ; 
and  her  ample  figure  was  tightly  laced  under  a 
sontag. 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  65 

"  Why,  aunt  Luceba  ! "  cried  Isabel,  radiant. 
"I'm  as  glad  as  I  can  be.  When  did  you 
rain  down  ? " 

"  Be  you  glad  ? "  returned  aunt  Luceba,  her 
somewhat  anxious  look  relaxing  into  a  smile. 
"  Well,  I  'm  pleased  if  you  be.  Fact  is,  I  run 
away,  an'  I  'm  jest  comin'  to  myself,  an'  won- 
derin'  what  under  the  sun  set  me  out  to  do  it." 

"  Run  away  !  "  repeated  Isabel,  drawing  her 
in,  and  at  once  peeping  into  the  stove.  "  Oh, 
you  fixed  the  fire,  didn't  you  ?  It  keeps  real 
well.  I  put  on  coal  in  the  morning,  and  then 
again  at  night." 

"  Isabel,"  began  her  aunt,  standing  by  the 
stove,  and  drumming  on  it  with  agitated  fingers, 
"  I  hate  to  have  you  live  as  you  do.  Why 
under  the  sun  can't  you  come  over  to  Saltash, 
an'  stay  with  us  ?  " 

Isabel  had  thrown  off  her  shawl  and  hat,  and 
was  standing  on  the  other  side  of  the  stove; 
she  was  tingling  with  cold  and  youthful  spirits. 

"  I  'm  keeping  school,"  said  she.  "  School 
can't  keep  without  me.  And  I  'm  going  over 
to  Sudleigh,  every  Saturday,  to  take  elocution 
lessons.  I  'm  having  my  own  way,  and  I  'm 
happy  as  a  clam.  Now,  why  can't  you  come 
and  live  with  me  ?  You  said  you  would,  the 
very  day  aunt  Eliza  died." 

"  I  know  I  did,"  owned  the  visitor,  lowering 
her  voice,  and  casting  a  glance  over  her  shoul 
der.  "  But  I  never  had  an  idea  then  how  Mary 


66  TIVERTON  TALES 

Ellen  'd  feel  about  it.  She  said  she  would  n't 
live  in  this  town,  not  if  she  was  switched.  I 
dunno  why  she's  so  ag'in'  it,  but  she  seems 
to  be,  an'  there  't  is  !  " 

"Why,  aunt  Luceba!  "  Isabel  had  left  her 
position  to  draw  forward  a  chair.  "  What 's 
that  ?  "  She  pointed  to  the  foot  of  the  lounge, 
where,  half  hidden  in  shadow,  stood  a  large, 
old-fashioned  blue  chest. 

"  'Sh  !  that 's  it !  that 's  what  I  come  for. 
It 's  her  chist." 

"Whose?" 

"  Your  aunt  'Liza's."  She  looked  Isabel  in 
the  face  with  an  absurd  triumph  and  awe.  She 
had  done  a  brave  deed,  the  nature  of  which 
was  not  at  once  apparent. 

"What 's  in  it  ?  "  asked  Isabel,  walking  over 
to  it. 

"Don't  you  touch  it!"  cried  her  aunt,  in 
agitation.  "  I  would  n't  have  you  meddle  with 
it  —  But  there  !  it  's  locked.  I  al'ays  forgit 
that.  I  feel  as  if  the  things  could  git  out  an' 
walk.  Here  !  you  let  it  alone,  an'  byme-by 
we  '11  open  it.  Se'  down  here  on  the  lounge. 
There,  now !  I  guess  I  can  tell  ye.  It  was  sis 
ter  'Liza's  chist,  an'  she  kep'  it  up  attic.  She 
begun  it  when  we  wa'n't  more  'n  girls  goin'  to 
Number  Six,  an'  she 's  been  fillin'  on  't  ever 
sence." 

"  Begun  it !  You  talk  as  if  't  was  a  quilt  1 " 
Isabel  began  to  laugh. 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  67 

"  Now  don't ! "  said  her  aunt,  in  great  dis 
tress.  "  Don't  ye  !  I  s'pose  't  was  because 
we  was  such  little  girls  an'  all  when  'Liza 
started  it,  but  it  makes  me  as  nervous  as  a 
witch,  an'  al'ays  did.  You  see,  'Liza  was  a 
great  hand  for  deaths  an'  buryin's  ;  an'  as  for 
funerals,  she  Td  ruther  go  to  'em  than  eat.  I  'd 
say  that  if  she  was  here  this  minute,  for  more  'n 
once  I  said  it  to  her  face.  Well,  everybody  't 
died,  she  saved  suthin'  they  wore  or  handled 
the  last  thing,  an'  laid  it  away  in  this  chist ; 
an'  last  time  I  see  it  opened,  't  was  full,  an'  she 
kind  o'  smacked  her  lips,  an'  said  she  should 
have  to  begin  another.  But  the  very  next 
week  she  was  took  away." 

"  Aunt  Luceba,"  said  Isabel  suddenly,  "  was 
aunt  Eliza  hard  to  live  with  ?  Did  you  and 
aunt  Mary  Ellen  have  to  toe  the  mark  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  say  one  word,"  answered  her 
aunt  hastily.  "That's  all  past  an'  gone. 
There  ain't  no  way  of  settlin'  old  scores  but 
buryin'  of  'em.  She  was  older  'n  we  were,  an' 
on'y  a  step-sister,  arter  all.  We  must  think 
o'  that.  Well,  I  must  come  to  the  end  o'  my 
story,  an'  then  we  '11  open  the  chist.  Next  day 
arter  we  laid  her  away,  it  come  into  my  head, 
1  Now  we  can  burn  up  them  things.'  It  may 
ha'  been  wicked,  but  there  't  was,  an'  the 
thought  kep*  arter  me,  till  all  I  could  think  of 
was  the  chist  ;  an'  byme-by  I  says  to  Mary 
Ellen,  one  mornin',  '  Le's  open  it  to-day  an' 


68  TIVERTON    TALES 

make  a  burnfire  ! '  An'  Mary  Ellen  she  turned 
as  white  as  a  sheet,  an'  dropped  her  spoon  into 
her  sasser,  an'  she  says  :  '  Not  yet !  Luceba, 
don't  you  ask  me  to  touch  it  yet.'  An'  I  found 
out,  though  she  never  'd  say  another  word, 
that  it  unset  her  more  'n  it  did  me.  One  day, 
I  come  on  her  up  attic  stan'in'  over  it  with  the 
key  in  her  hand,  an'  she  turned  round  as  if  I  'd 
ketched  her  stealin',  an'  slipped  off  downstairs. 
An'  this  arternoon,  she  went  into  Tilly  Elli 
son's  with  her  work,  an'  it  come  to  me  all  of  a 
sudden  how  I  'd  git  Tim  Yatter  to  harness  an' 
load  the  chist  onto  the  pung,  an'  I  'd  bring  it 
over  here,  an'  we  'd  look  it  over  together ;  an' 
then,  if  there  's  nothin'  in  it  but  what  I  think, 
I  'd  leave  it  behind,  an'  maybe  you  or  Sadie  'd 
burn  it.  John  Cole  happened  to  ride  by,  and 
he  helped  me  in  with  it.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
have  Mary  Ellen  worried.  She 's  different 
from  me.  She  went  to  school,  same 's  you 
have,  an'  she  's  different  somehow.  She 's  been 
meddled  with  all  her  life,  an'  I  '11  be  whipped 
if  she  sha'n't  make  a  new  start.  Should  you 
jest  as  lieves  ask  Sadie  or  John  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Isabel  wonderingly  ;  "  or 
do  it  myself.  I  don't  see  why  you  care." 

Aunt  Luceba  wiped  her  beaded  face  with  a 
large  handkerchief. 

"  I  dunno  either,"  she  owned,  in  an  ex 
hausted  voice.  "  I  guess  it 's  al'ays  little 
things  you  can't  stand.  Big  ones  you  can  butt 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  69 

ag'inst.  There  !  I  feel  better,  now  I  Ve  told 
ye.  Here  's  the  key.  Should  you  jest  as  soon 
open  it  ? " 

Isabel  drew  the  chest  forward  with  a  vigor 
ous  pull  of  her  sturdy  arm.  She  knelt  before 
it  and  inserted  the  key.  Aunt  Luceba  rose 
and  leaned  over  her  shoulder,  gazing  with  the 
fascination  of  horror.  At  the  moment  the  lid 
was  lifted,  a  curious  odor  filled  the  room. 

"  My  soul !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Luceba.  "  O 
my  soul !  "  She  seemed  incapable  of  saying 
more  ;  and  Isabel,  awed  in  spite  of  herself, 
asked,  in  a  whisper  :  — 

"  What 's  that  smell  ?  I  know,  but  I  can't 
think." 

"  You  take  out  that  parcel,"  said  aunt  Lu 
ceba,  beginning  to  fan  herself  with  her  hand 
kerchief.  "  That  little  one  down  there  't  the 
end.  It 's  that.  My  soul !  how  things  come 
back  !  Talk  about  spirits  !  There  's  no  need 
of  'em  !  Things  are  full  bad  enough  !  " 

Isabel  lifted  out  a  small  brown  paper  pack 
age,  labeled  in  a  cramped  handwriting.  She 
held  it  to  the  fading  light.  "  '  Slippery  elm 
left  by  my  dear  father  from  his  last  illness,'" 
she  read,  with  difficulty.  "  'The  broken  piece 
used  by  him  on  the  day  of  his  death.' ' 

"  My  land  !  "  exclaimed  aunt  Luceba  weakly. 
11  Now  what  'd  she  want  to  keep  that  for  ?  He 
had  it  round  all  that  winter,  an'  he  used  to  give 
us  a  little  mite,  to  please  us.  Oh,  dear!  it 


70  TIVERTON   TALES 

smells  like  death.  Well,  le's  lay  it  aside  an* 
git  on.  The  light 's  goin',  an'  I  must  jog 
along.  Take  out  that  dress.  I  guess  I  know 
what  't  is,  though  I  can't  hardly  believe  it." 

Isabel  took  out  a  black  dress,  made  with  a 
full,  gathered  skirt  and  an  old-fashioned  waist. 
" '  Dress  made  ready  for  aunt  Mercy,'  "  she 
read,  "'before  my  dear  uncle  bought  her  a 
robe.'  But,  auntie,"  she  added,  "  there  's  no 
back  breadth  ! " 

"  I  know  it !  I  know  it  !  She  was  so  large 
they  had  to  cut  it  out,  for  fear  't  would  n't  go 
into  the  coffin  ;  an'  Monroe  Giles  said  she  was 
a  real  particular  woman,  an'  he  wondered  how 
she  'd  feel  to  have  the  back  breadth  of  her 
quilted  petticoat  showin'  in  heaven.  I  declare 
I  'm  'most  sick !  What 's  in  that  pasteboard 
box?" 

It  was  a  shriveled  object,  black  with  long- 
dried  mould. 

"  '  Lemon  held  by  Timothy  Marden  in  his 
hand  just  before  he  died.'  Aunt  Luceba," 
said  Isabel,  turning  with  a  swift  impulse,  "  I 
think  aunt  Eliza  was  a  horror  ! " 

"  Don't  you  say  it,  if  you  do  think  it,"  said 
her  aunt,  sinking  into  a  chair  and  rocking 
vigorously.  "  Le's  git  through  with  it  as 
quick  's  we  can.  Ain't  that  a  bandbox  ?  Yes, 
that 's  great-aunt  Isabel's  leghorn  bunnit.  You 
was  named  for  her,  you  know.  An'  there's 
cousin  Hattie's  cashmere  shawl,  an'  Obed's 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  71 

spe'tacles.  An'  if  there  ain't  old  Mis'  Eaton's 
false  front !  Don't  you  read  no  more.  I  don't 
care  what  they  're  marked.  Move  that  box  a 
mite.  My  soul!  There's  ma'am's  checked 
apron  I  bought  her  to  the  fair !  Them  are  all 
her  things  down  below."  She  got  up  and 
walked  to  the  window,  looking  into  the  chest 
nut  branches,  with  unseeing  eyes.  She  turned 
about  presently,  and  her  cheeks  were  wet. 
"  There  !  "  she  said  ;  "  I  guess  we  need  n't 
look  no  more.  Should  you  jest  as  soon  burn 
'em?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Isabel.  She  was  crying  a 
little,  too.  "  Of  course  I  will,  auntie.  I  '11  put 
'em  back  now.  But  when  you  're  gone,  I  '11  do 
it ;  perhaps  not  till  Saturday,  but  I  will  then." 

She  folded  the  articles,  and  softly  laid  them 
away.  They  were  no  longer  gruesome,  since 
even  a  few  of  them  could  recall  the  beloved 
and  still  remembered  dead.  As  she  was  gently 
closing  the  lid,  she  felt  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
Aunt  Luceba  was  standing  there,  trembling 
a  little,  though  the  tears  had  gone  from  her 
face. 

"  Isabel,"  said  she,  in  a  whisper,  "  you 
need  n't  burn  the  apron,  when  you  do  the  rest. 
Save  it  careful.  I  should  like  to  put  it  away 
among  my  things." 

Isabel  nodded.  She  remembered  her  grand 
mother,  a  placid,  hopeful  woman,  whose  every 
deed  breathed  the  fragrance  of  godly  living. 


72  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  There  !  "  said  her  aunt,  turning  away  with 
the  air  of  one  who  thrusts  back  the  too  insist 
ent  past,  lest  it  dominate  her  quite.  "  It 's 
gittin'  along  towards  dark,  an'  I  must  put  for 
home.  I  guess  that  hoss  thinks  he 's  goin'  to 
be  froze  to  the  ground.  You  wrop  up  my  soap- 
stone  while  I  git  on  my  shawl.  Land  !  don't 
it  smell  hot  ?  I  wisht  I  had  n't  been  so  spry 
about  puttin'  on  't  into  the  oven."  She  hurried 
on  her  things  ;  and  Isabel,  her  hair  blowing 
about  her  face,  went  out  to  uncover  the  horse 
and  speed  the  departure.  The  reins  in  her 
hands,  aunt  Luceba  bent  forward  once  more 
to  add,  "  Isabel,  if  there 's  one  thing  left  for 
me  to  say,  to  tole  you  over  to  live  with  us,  I 
want  to  say  it." 

Isabel  laughed.  "  I  know  it,"  she  answered 
brightly.  "  And  if  there  's  anything  I  can  say 
to  make  you  and  aunt  Mary  Ellen  come  over 
here"  — 

Aunt  Luceba  shook  her  head  ponderously, 
and  clucked  at  the  horse.  "  Fur 's  I  'm  con 
cerned,  it 's  settled  now.  I  'd  come,  an*  be 
glad.  But  there  's  Mary  Ellen  !  Go  'long  !  " 
She  went  jangling  away  along  the  country 
road  to  the  music  of  old-fashioned  bells. 

Isabel  ran  into  the  house,  and,  with  one 
look  at  the  chest,  set  about  preparing  her  sup 
per.  She  was  enjoying  her  life  of  perfect 
freedom  with  a  kind  of  bravado,  inasmuch  as  it 
seemed  an  innocent  delight  of  which  nobody 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  73 

approved.  If  the  two  aunts  would  come  to 
live  with  her,  so  much  the  better ;  but  since 
they  refused,  she  scorned  the  descent  to  any 
domestic  expedient.  Indeed,  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  sleep,  as  well  as  to  eat,  in  the 
lonely  house  ;  but  to  that  her  sister  would 
never  consent,  and  though  she  had  compro 
mised  by  going  to  Sadie's  for  the  night,  she 
always  returned  before  breakfast.  She  put  up 
a  leaf  of  the  table  standing  by  the  wall,  and 
arranged  her  simple  supper  there,  uttering 
aloud  as  she  did  so  fragments  of  her  lesson,  or 
dramatic  sentences  which  had  caught  her  fancy 
in  reading  or  in  speech.  Finally,  as  she  was 
dipping  her  cream  toast,  she  caught  herself 
saying,  over  and  over,  "  My  soul ! "  in  the 
tremulous  tone  her  aunt  had  used  at  that  mo 
ment  of  warm  emotion.  She  could  not  make 
it  quite  her  own,  and  she  tried  again  and  again, 
like  a  faithful  parrot.  Then  of  a  sudden  the 
human  power  and  pity  of  it  flashed  upon  her, 
and  she  reddened,  conscience-smitten,  though 
no  one  was  by  to  hear.  She  set  her  dish  upon 
the  table  with  indignant  emphasis. 

"  I  'm  ashamed  of  myself !  "  said  Isabel,  and 
she  sat  down  to  her  delicate  repast,  and  forced 
herself,  while  she  ate  with  a  cordial  relish,  to 
fix  her  mind  on  what  seemed  to  her  things 
common  as  compared  with  her  beloved  ambi 
tion.  Isabel  often  felt  that  she  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  reading,  and  that,  somehow  or 


7V4  TIVERTON   TALES 

other,  God  would  come  to  that  conclusion  also, 
and  take  away  her  wicked  facility. 

The  dark  seemed  to  drift  quickly  down,  that 
night,  because  her  supper  had  been  delayed, 
and  she  washed  her  dishes  by  lamplight. 
When  she  had  quite  finished,  and  taken  off 
her  apron,  she  stood  a  moment  over  the  chest, 
before  sitting  down  to  her  task  of  memorizing 
verse.  She  was  wondering  whether  she  might 
not  burn  a  few  of  the  smaller  things  to-night ; 
yet  somehow,  although  she  was  quite  free 
from  aunt  Luceba's  awe  of  them,  she  did  feel 
that  the  act  must  be  undertaken  with  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  solemnity.  It  ought  not  to  be 
accomplished  over  the  remnants  of  a  fire  built 
for  cooking;  it  should,  moreover,  be  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  serious  mood  in  herself. 
She  turned  away,  but  at  that  instant  there 
came  a  jingle  of  bells.  It  stopped  at  the  gate. 
Isabel  went  into  the  dark  entry,  and  pressed 
her  face  against  the  side-light.  It  was  the 
parson.  She  knew  him  at  once ;  no  one  in 
Tiverton  could  ever  mistake  that  stooping 
figure,  draped  in  a  shawl.  Isabel  always  hated 
him  the  more  when  she  thought  of  his  shawl. 
It  flashed  upon  her  then,  as  it  often  did  when 
revulsion  came  over  her,  how  much  she  had 
loved  him  until  he  had  conceived  this  alto 
gether  horrible  attachment  for  her.  It  was 
like  a  cherished  friend  who  had  begun  to  cut 
undignified  capers.  More  than  that,  there 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  75 

lurked  a  certain  cruelty  in  it,  because  he 
seemed  to  be  trading  on  her  inherited  rever 
ence  for  his  office.  If  he  should  ask  her  to 
marry  him,  he  was  the  minister,  and  how  could 
she  refuse  ?  Unless,  indeed,  there  were  some 
body  else  in  the  room,  to  give  her  courage, 
and  that  was  hardly  to  be  expected.  Isabel 
began  casting  wildly  about  her  for  help.  Her 
thoughts  ran  in  a  rushing  current,  and  even  in 
the  midst  of  her  tragic  despair  some  sense  of 
the  foolishness  of  it  smote  her  like  a  comic 
note,  and  she  could  have  laughed  hysterically. 

"  But  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said  aloud,  "  I  am 
afraid.  I  can't  put  out  the  light.  He  's  seen 
it.  I  can't  slip  out  the  back  door.  He'd  hear 
me  on  the  crust.  He  '11  —  ask  me  —  to-night ! 
Oh,  he  will !  he  will !  and  I  said  to  myself  I  'd 
be  cunning  and  never  give  him  a  chance.  Oh, 
why  could  n't  aunt  Luceba  have  stayed  ?  My 
soul !  my  soul !  "  And  then  the  dramatic  fibre, 
always  awake  in  her,  told  her  that  she  had 
found  the  tone  she  sought. 

He  was  blanketing  his  horse,  and  Isabel 
had  flown  into  the  sitting-room.  Her  face  was 
alive  with  resolution  and  a  kind  of  joy.  She 
had  thought.  She  threw  open  the  chest,  with 
a  trembling  hand,  and  pulled  out  the  black 
dress. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  she  said,  as  she  slipped  it  on 
over  her  head,  and  speaking  as  if  she  addressed 
some  unseen  guardian,  "  but  I  can't  help  it 


76  TIVERTON   TALES 

If  you  don't  want  your  things  used,  you  keep 
him  from  coming  in  ! " 

The  parson  knocked  at  the  door.  Isabel 
took  no  notice.  She  was  putting  on  the  false 
front,  the  horn  spectacles,  the  cashmere  shawl, 
and  the  leghorn  bonnet,  with  its  long  veil. 
She  threw  back  the  veil,  and  closed  the  chest. 
The  parson  knocked  again.  She  heard  him 
kicking  the  snow  from  his  feet  against  the 
scraper.  It  might  have  betokened  a  decent 
care  for  her  floors.  It  sounded  to  Isabel  like 
a  lover's  haste,  and  smote  her  anew  with  that 
fear  which  is  the  forerunner  of  action.  She 
blew  out  the  lamp,  and  lighted  a  candle.  Then 
she  went  to  the  door,  schooling  herself  in  des 
peration  to  remember  this,  to  remember  that, 
to  remember,  above  all  things,  that  her  under 
dress  was  red  and  that  her  upper  one  had  no 
back  breadth.  She  threw  open  the  door. 

"  Good-evening  "  —  said  the  parson.  He  was 
about  to  add  "  Miss  Isabel,"  but  the  words 
stuck  in  his  throat. 

"  She  ain't  to  home,"  answered  Isabel.  "  My 
niece  ain't  to  home." 

The  parson  had  bent  forward,  and  was  eyeing 
her  curiously,  yet  with  benevolence.  He  knew 
all  the  residents  within  a  large  radius,  and  he 
expected,  at  another  word  from  the  shadowy 
masker,  to  recognize  her  also.  "  Will  she  be 
away  long  ? "  he  hesitated. 

"  I  guess  she  will,"  answered  Isabel  promptly. 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  77 

"  She  ain't  to  be  relied  on.  I  never  found  her 
so."  Her  spirits  had  risen.  She  knew  how 
exactly  she  was  imitating  aunt  Luceba's  mode 
of  speech.  The  tones  were  dramatically  exact, 
albeit  of  a  more  resonant  quality.  "  Auntie's 
voice  is  like  suet,"  she  thought.  "  Mine  is 
vinegar.  But  I  've  got  it  !  "  A  merry  devil 
assailed  her,  the  child  of  dramatic  triumph. 
She  spoke  with  decision  :  "  Won't  you  come 
in  ? " 

The  parson  crossed  the  sill,  and  waited  cour 
teously  for  her  to  precede  him  ;  but  Isabel 
thought,  in  time,  of  her  back  breadth,  and  stood 
aside. 

"  You  go  fust,"  said  she,  "  an'  I  '11  shet  the 
door." 

He  made  his  way  into  the  ill-lighted  sitting- 
room,  and  began  to  unpin  his  shawl. 

0  I  ain't  had  my  bunnit  off  sence  I  come,'1 
announced  Isabel,  entering  with  some  bustle, 
and  taking  her  stand,  until  he  should  be  seated, 
within  the  darkest  corner  of  the  hearth.  "  I  've 
had  to  turn  to  an'  clear  up,  or  I  should  n't  ha' 
found  a  spot  as  big  as  a  bin's  egg  to  sleep  in 
to-night.  Maybe  you  don't  know  it,  but  my 
niece  Isabel 's  got  no  more  faculty  about  a 
house 'n  I  have  for  preachin'  —  not  a  mite." 

The  parson  had  seated  himself  by  the  stove, 
and  was  laboriously  removing  his  arctics. 
Isabel's  eyes  danced  behind  her  spectacles  as 
she  thought  how  large  and  ministerial  they 


78  TIVERTON   TALES 

were.  She  could  not  see  them,  for  the  specta 
cles  dazzled  her,  but  she  remembered  exactly 
how  they  looked.  Everything  about  him  filled 
her  with  glee,  now  that  she  was  safe,  though 
within  his  reach.  "  '  Now,  infidel/  "  she  said 
noiselessly,  "  '  I  have  thee  on  the  hip  ! " 

The  parson  had  settled  himself  in  his  accus 
tomed  attitude  when  making  parochial  calls. 
He  put  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together,  and 
opened  conversation  in  his  tone  of  mild  good 
will  :  — 

"  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  place  you.  A 
relative  of  Miss  Isabel's,  did  you  say?" 

She  laughed  huskily.  She  was  absorbed  in 
putting  more  suet  into  her  voice. 

"  You  make  me  think  of  uncle  Peter  Nudd," 
she  replied,  "  when  he  was  took  up  into  Bunker 
Hill  Monument.  Albert  took  him,  one  o'  the 
boys  that  lived  in  Boston.  Comin'  down,  they 
met  a  woman  Albert  knew,  an'  he  bowed. 
Uncle  Peter  looked  round  arter  her,  an'  then 
he  says  to  Albert,  '  I  dunno  's  I  rightly  remem 
ber  who  that  is  ! '  " 

The  parson  uncrossed  his  legs  and  crossed 
them  the  other  way.  The  old  lady  began  to 
seem  to  him  a  thought  too  discursive,  if  not 
hilarious. 

"  I  know  so  many  of  the  people  in  the  vari 
ous  parishes" — he  began,  but  he  was  inter 
rupted  without  compunction. 

"  You  never  'd   know  me.     I  'm  from  out 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  79 

West.  Isabel's  father's  brother  married  my 
uncle  —  no,  I  would  say  my  step-niece.  An* 
so  I  'm  her  aunt.  By  adoption,  't  ennyrate. 
We  al'ays  call  it  so,  leastways  when  we're 
writin'  back  an'  forth.  An'  I  've  heard  how 
Isabel  was  goin'  on,  an'  so  I  ketched  up  my 
bunnit,  an'  put  for  Tiverton.  '  If  she  ever 
needed  her  own  aunt,'  says  I  — '  her  aunt  by 
adoption  —  she  needs  her  now.' ' 

Once  or  twice,  during  the  progress  of  this 
speech,  the  visitor  had  shifted  his  position, 
as  if  ill  at  ease.  Now  he  bent  forward,  and 
peered  at  his  hostess. 

"  Isabel  is  well  ?  "  he  began  tentatively. 

"  Well  enough  !  But,  my  sakes  !  I  'd  ruther 
she  'd  be  sick  abed  or  paraletic  than  carry  on 
as  she  does.  Slack  ?  My  soul !  I  wisht  you 
could  see  her  sink  closet !  I  wisht  you  could 
take  one  look  over  the  dirty  dishes  she  leaves 
round,  not  washed  from  one  week's  end  to 
another !  " 

"  But  she 's  always  neat.  She  looks  like  an 
—  an  angel !  " 

Isabel  could  not  at  once  suppress  the  grat 
ified  note  which  crept  of  itself  into  her 
voice. 

"  That 's  the  outside  o'  the  cup  an'  platter," 
she  said  knowingly.  "  I  thank  my  stars  she 
ain't  likely  to  marry.  She  'd  turn  any  man's 
house  upside  down  inside  of  a  week." 

The  parson  made  a  deprecating  noise  in  his 


8o  TIVERTON   TALES 

throat.  He  seemed  about  to  say  something, 
and  thought  better  of  it. 

"  It  may  be,"  he  hesitated,  after  a  moment, 
—  "  it  may  be  her  studies  take  up  too  much  of 
her  time.  I  have  always  thought  these  elocu 
tion  lessons  "  — 

"  Oh,  my  land  !  "  cried  Isabel,  in  passionate 
haste.  She  leaned  forward  as  if  she  would  im 
plore  him.  "  That 's  her  only  salvation.  That's 
the  makin'  of  her.  If  you  stop  her  off  there, 
I  dunno  but  she  'd  jine  a  circus  or  take  to 
drink  !  Don't  you  dast  to  do  it !  I  'm  in  the 
family,  an'  I  know." 

The  parson  tried  vainly  to  struggle  out  of 
his  bewilderment. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  may  I  ask  how  you  heard 
these  reports  ?  Living  in  Illinois,  as  you  do  — 
did  you  say  Illinois  or  Iowa?" 

"  Neither,"  answered  Isabel  desperately. 
"  'Way  out  on  the  plains.  It 's  the  last  house 
afore  you  come  to  the  Rockies.  Law!  you 
can't  tell  how  a  story  gits  started,  nor  how  fast 
it  will  travel.  'T  ain't  like  a  gale  o'  wind  ;  the 
weather  bureau  ain't  been  invented  that  can 
cal'late  it.  I  heard  of  a  man  once  that  told  a 
lie  in  California,  an'  'fore  the  week  was  out  it 
broke  up  his  engagement  in  New  Hampshire. 
There 's  the  'tater-bug  —  think  how  that  trav 
els  !  So  with  this.  The  news  broke  out  in 
Missouri,  an'  here  I  be." 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  remain." 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  81 

"  Only  to-night,"  she  said  in  haste.  More 
and  more  nervous,  she  was  losing  hold  on 
the  sequence  of  her  facts.  "  I  'm  like  mortal 
life,  here  to-day  an'  there  to-morrer.  In  the 
mornin'  I  shan't  be  found."  ("  But  Isabel 
will,"  she  thought,  from  a  remorse  which  had 
come  too  late,  "  and  she  '11  have  to  lie,  or  run 
away.  Or  cut  a  hole  in  the  ice  and  drown 
herself ! ") 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  have  her  lose  so  much  of  your 
visit,"  began  the  parson  courteously,  but  still 
perplexing  himself  over  the  whimsies  of  an 
old  lady  who  flew  on  from  the  West,  and  made 
nothing  of  flying  back.  "  If  I  could  do  any 
thing  towards  finding  her"  — 

"  I  know  where  she  is,"  said  Isabel  unhap 
pily.  "  She  's  as  well  on  't  as  she  can  be, 
under  the  circumstances.  There's  on'y  one 
thing  you  could  do.  If  you  should  be  willin' 
to  keep  it  dark 't  you  've  seen  me,  I  should 
be  real  beholden  to  ye.  You  know  there  ain't 
no  time  to  call  in  the  neighborhood,  an'  such 
things  make  talk,  an'  all.  An'  if  you  don't 
speak  out  to  Isabel,  so  much  the  better.  Poor 
creatur',  she 's  got  enough  to  bear  without 
that  !  "  Her  voice  dropped  meltingly  in  the 
keenness  of  her  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate 
girl  who,  embarrassed  enough  before,  had  delib 
erately  set  for  herself  another  snare.  "  I  feel 
for  Isabel,"  she  continued,  in  the  hope  of  im 
pressing  him  with  the  necessity  for  silence 


82  TIVERTON   TALES 

and  inaction.  "  I  do  feel  for  her  !  Oh,  gra 
cious  me  !  What 's  that  ?  " 

A  decided  rap  had  sounded  at  the  front  door. 
The  parson  rose  also,  amazed  at  her  agita 
tion. 

"  Somebody  knocked,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  go 
to  the  door  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  yet,  not  yet !  "  cried  Isabel,  clasp 
ing  her  hands  under  her  cashmere  shawl.  "  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Her  natural  voice  had  asserted  itself,  but, 
strangely  enough,  the  parson  did  not  compre 
hend.  The  entire  scene  was  too  bewildering. 
There  came  a  second  knock.  He  stepped 
toward  the  door,  but  Isabel  darted  in  front  of 
him.  She  forgot  her  back  breadth,  and  even 
through  that  dim  twilight  the  scarlet  of  her 
gown  shone  ruddily  out  She  placed  herself 
before  the  door. 

"  Don't  you  go ! "  she  entreated  hoarsely. 
"Let  me  think  what  I  can  say." 

Then  the  parson  had  his  first  inkling  that 
the  strange  visitor  must  be  mad.  He  won 
dered  at  himself  for  not  thinking  of  it  before, 
and  the  idea  speedily  coupled  itself  with  Isa 
bel's  strange  disappearance.  He  stepped  for 
ward  and  grasped  her  arm,  trembling  under  the 
cashmere  shawl. 

"Woman,"  he  demanded  sternly,  "what 
have  you  done  with  Isabel  North  ? " 

Isabel  was  thinking  ;  but  the  question,  twice 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  83 

repeated,  brought  her  to  herself.  She  began 
to  laugh,  peal  on  peal  of  hysterical  mirth  ;  and 
the  parson,  still  holding  her  arm,  grew  compas 
sionate. 

"  Poor  soul  !  "  said  he  soothingly.  "  Poor 
soul  !  sit  down  here  by  the  stove  and  be  calm 
—  be  calm!  " 

Isabel  was  overcome  anew. 

"  Oh,  it  is  n't  so  !  "  she  gasped,  finding 
breath.  "  I  'm  not  crazy.  Just  let  me  be  ! " 

She  started  under  his  detaining  hand,  for 
the  knock  had  come  again.  Wrenching  her 
self  free,  she  stepped  into  the  entry.  "  Who 's 
there?"  she  called. 

"  It 's  your  aunt  Mary  Ellen,"  came  a  voice 
from  the  darkness.  "  Open  the  door." 

"  O  my  soul !  "  whispered  Isabel  to  herself. 
"  Wait  a  minute  ! "  she  continued.  "  Only  a 
minute !  " 

She  thrust  the  parson  back  into  the  sitting- 
room,  and  shut  the  door.  The  act  relieved  her. 
If  she  could  push  a  minister,  and  he  could 
obey  in  such  awkward  fashion,  he  was  no  longer 
to  be  feared.  He  was  even  to  be  refused. 
Isabel  felt  equal  to  doing  it. 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  she  rapidly  ;  "  you 
stand  right  there  while  I  take  off  these  things. 
Don't  you  say  a  word.  No,  Mr.  Bond,  don't 
you  speak  !"  Bonnet,  false  front,  and  specta 
cles  were  tossed  in  a  tumultuous  pile. 

"  Isabel ! "  gasped  the  parson. 


84  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Keep  still ! "  she  commanded.  "  Here  i 
fold  this  shawl !  " 

The  parson  folded  it  neatly,  and  meanwhile 
Isabel  stepped  out  of  the  mutilated  dress,  and 
added  that  also  to  the  heap.  She  opened  the 
blue  chest,  and  packed  the  articles  hastily 
within.  "  Here  !  "  said  she  ;  "  toss  me  the 
shawl.  Now  if  you  say  one  word  —  Oh,  par 
son,  if  you  only  will  keep  still,  I  '11  tell  you  all 
about  it !  That  is,  I  guess  I  can ! "  And 
leaving  him  standing  in  hopeless  coma,  she 
opened  the  door. 

"  Well,"  said  aunt  Mary  Ellen,  stepping  in, 
"  I  'm  afraid  your  hinges  want  greasing.  How 
do  you  do,  Isabel?  How  do  you  do?"  She 
put  up  her  face  and  kissed  her  niece.  Aunt 
Mary  Ellen  was  so  pretty,  so  round,  so  small, 
that  she  always  seemed  timid,  and  did  the  com 
monest  acts  of  life  with  a  gentle  grace.  "  I 
heard  voices,"  she  said,  walking  into  the  sit 
ting-room.  "  Sadie  here  ? " 

The  parson  had  stepped  forward,  more  bent 
than  usual,  for  he  was  peering  down  into  her 
face. 

"  Mary  Ellen  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

The  little  woman  looked  up  at  him  —  very 
sadly,  Isabel  thought. 

"  Yes,  William,"  she  answered.  But  she 
was  untying  her  bonnet,  and  she  did  not  offer 
to  shake  hands. 

Isabel  stood  by  with  downcast  eyes,  waiting 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  85 

to  take  her  things,  and  aunt  Mary  Ellen 
looked  searchingly  up  at  her  as  she  laid  her 
mittens  on  the  pile.  The  girl,  without  a  word, 
went  into  the  bedroom,  and  her  aunt  followed 
her. 

"  Isabel,"  said  she  rapidly,  "  I  saw  the 
chest.  Have  you  burnt  the  things  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Isabel  in  wonder.     "  No." 

"  Then  don't  you  !  don't  you  touch  'em  for 
the  world."  She  went  back  into  the  sitting- 
room,  and  Isabel  followed.  The  candle  was 
guttering,  and  aunt  Mary  Ellen  pushed  it 
toward  her.  "  I  don't  know  where  the  snuffers 
are,"  she  said.  "  Lamp  smoke  ?  " 

Isabel  did  not  answer,  but  she  lighted  the 
lamp.  She  had  never  seen  her  aunt  so  full  of 
decision,  so  charged  with  an  unfamiliar  power. 
She  felt  as  if  strange  things  were  about  to  hap 
pen.  The  parson  was  standing  awkwardly. 
He  wondered  whether  he  ought  to  go.  Aunt 
Mary  Ellen  smoothed  her  brown  hair  with  both 
hands,  sat  down,  and  pointed  to  his  chair. 

"  Sit  a  spell,"  she  said.  "  I  guess  I  shall 
have  something  to  talk  over  with  you." 

The  parson  sat  down.  He  tried  to  put  his 
fingers  together,  but  they  trembled,  and  he 
clasped  his  hands  instead. 

"  It 's  a  long  time  since  we  Ve  seen  you  in 
Tiverton,"  he  began. 

"  It  would  have  been  longer,"  she  answered, 
"but  I  felt  as  if  my  niece  needed  me." 


86  TIVERTON   TALES 

Here  Isabel,  to  her  own  surprise,  gave  a  little 
sob,  and  then  another.  She  began  crying  an 
grily  into  her  handkerchief. 

"  Isabel,"  said  her  aunt,  "  is  there  a  fire  in 
the  kitchen  ? " 

"  Yes,"  sobbed  the  girl. 

"  Well,  you  go  out  there  and  lie  down  on 
the  lounge  till  you  feel  better.  Cover  you 
over,  and  don't  be  cold.  I  '11  call  you  when 
there 's  anything  for  you  to  do." 

Tall  Isabel  rose  and  walked  out,  wiping  her 
eyes.  Her  little  aunt  sat  mistress  of  the  field. 
For  many  minutes  there  was  silence,  and  the 
clock  ticked.  The  parson  felt  something  ris» 
ing  in  his  throat.  He  blew  his  nose  vigor 
ously. 

"Mary  Ellen" —  he  began.  "But  I  don't 
know  as  you  want  me  to  call  you  so  !  " 

"  You  can  call  me  anything  you  're  a  mind 
to,"  she  answered  calmly.  She  was  near-, 
sighted,  and  had  always  worn  spectacles.  She 
took  them  off  and  laid  them  on  her  knee.  The 
parson  moved  involuntarily  in  his  chair.  He 
remembered  how  she  had  used  to  do  that  when 
they  were  talking  intimately,  so  that  his  eager 
look  might  not  embarrass  her.  "  Nothing 
makes  much  difference  when  folks  get  to  be  as 
old  as  you  and  I  are." 

"I  don't  feel  old,"  said  the  parson  resent 
fully.  "  I  do  not  J  And  you  don't  look  so." 

"  Well,   I    am.       We  're  past    our  youth. 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  87 

We've  got  to  the  point  where  the  only  way  to 
renew  it  is  to  look  out  for  the  young  ones." 

The  parson  had  always  had  with  her  a  way 
of  reading  her  thought  and  bursting  out  boy 
ishly  into  betrayal  of  his  own. 

"Mary  Ellen,"  he  cried,  "I  never  should 
have  explained  it  so,  but  Isabel  looks  like 
you !  " 

She  smiled  sadly.  "  I  guess  men  make 
themselves  think  'most  anything  they  want 
to,"  she  answered.  "  There  may  be  a  family 
look,  but  I  can't  see  it.  She  's  tall,  too,  and  I 
was  always  a  pint  o'  cider —  so  father  said." 

"  She  's  got  the  same  look  in  her  eyes,"  pur 
sued  the  parson  hotly.  "  I  've  always  thought 
so,  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl." 

"  If  you  begun  to  notice  it  then,"  she  re 
sponded,  with  the  same  gentle  calm,  "you'd 
better  by  half  ha'  been  thinking  of  your  own 
wife  and  her  eyes.  I  believe  they  were  black." 

"  Mary  Ellen,  how  hard  you  are  on  me ! 
You  did  n't  use  to  be.  You  never  were  hard 
on  anybody.  You  would  n't  have  hurt  a  fly." 

Her  face  contracted  slightly.  "  Perhaps  I 
would  n't !  perhaps  I  would  n't !  But  I  Ve  had 
a  good  deal  to  bear  this  afternoon,  and  maybe 
I  do  feel  a  little  different  towards  you  from 
what  I  ever  have  felt.  I  've  been  hearing  a 
loose-tongued  woman  tell  how  my  own  niece 
has  been  made  town-talk  because  a  man  old 
enough  to  know  better  was  running  after  her. 


88  TIVERTON   TALES 

I  said,  years  ago,  I  never  would  come  into  this 
place  while  you  was  in  it ;  but  when  I  heard 
that,  I  felt  as  if  Providence  had  marked  out 
the  way.  I  knew  I  was  the  one  to  step  into 
the  breach.  So  I  had  Tim  harness  up  and 
bring  me  over,  and  here  I  am.  William,  I  don't 
want  you  should  make  a  mistake  at  your  time 
of  life !  " 

The  minister  seemed  already  a  younger  man. 
A  strong  color  had  risen  in  his  face.  He  felt 
in  her  presence  a  fine  exhilaration  denied  him 
through  all  the  years  without  her.  Who  could 
say  whether  it  was  the  woman  herself  or  the 
resurrected  spirit  of  their  youth  ?  He  did  not 
feel  like  answering  her.  It  was  enough  to 
hear  her  voice.  He  leaned  forward,  looking  at 
her  with  something  piteous  in  his  air. 

"  Mary  Ellen,"  he  ventured,  "  you  might  as 
well  say  *  another  mistake.'  I  did  make  one. 
You  know  it,  and  I  know  it." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  frank  affection, 
entirely  maternal.  "  Yes,  William,"  she  said, 
with  the  same  gentle  firmness  in  her  voice, 
"  we  Ve  passed  so  far  beyond  those  things  that 
we  can  speak  out  and  feel  no  shame.  You  did 
make  a  mistake.  I  don't  know  as  't  would  be 
called  so  to  break  with  me,  but  it  was  to  marry 
where  you  did.  You  never  cared  about  her. 
You  were  good  to  her.  You  always  would 
be,  William  ;  but  't  was  a  shame  to  put  her 
there." 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  89 

The  parson  had  locked  his  hands  upon  his 
knees.  He  looked  at  them,  and  sad  lines  of 
recollection  deepened  in  his  face. 

"  I  was  desperate,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a 
low  tone.  "  I  had  lost  you.  Some  men  take 
to  drink,  but  that  never  tempted  me.  Besides, 
I  was  a  minister.  I  was  just  ordained.  Mary 
Ellen,  do  you  remember  that  day  ? " 

"Yes,"  she  answered  softly,  "  I  remember." 
She  had  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  vacancy  with  the  suffused  look 
of  tears  forbidden  to  fall. 

"  You  wore  a  white  dress,"  went  on  the 
parson,  "and  a  bunch  of  Provence  roses.  It 
was  June.  Your  sister  always  thought  you 
dressed  too  gay,  but  you  said  to  her,  '  I  guess 
I  can  wear  what  I  want  to,  to-day  of  all 
times.'  " 

"  We  won't  talk  about  her.  Yes,  I  remem 
ber." 

"  And,  as  God  is  my  witness,  I  could  n't  feel 
solemn,  I  was  so  glad  !  I  was  a  minister,  and 
my  girl  —  the  girl  that  was  going  to  marry 
me  —  sat  down  there  where  I  could  see  her, 
dressed  in  white.  I  always  thought  of  you 
afterwards  with  that  white  dress  on.  You  've 
stayed  with  me  all  my  life,  just  that  way." 

Mary  Ellen  put  up  her  hand  with  a  quick 
gesture  to  hide  her  middle-aged  face.  With 
a  thought  as  quick,  she  folded  it  resolutely 
upon  the  other  in  her  lap.  "Yes,  William," 


90  TIVERTON   TALES 

she  said.  "  I  was  a  girl  then.  I  wore  white 
a  good  deal." 

But  the  parson  hardly  heeded  her.  He  was 
far  away.  "  Mary  Ellen,"  he  broke  out  sud 
denly,  a  smile  running  warmly  over  his  face, 
and  creasing  his  dry,  hollow  cheeks,  "  do  you 
remember  that  other  sermon,  my  trial  one  ? 
I  read  it  to  you,  and  then  I  read  it  to  Par 
son  Sibley.  And  do  you  remember  what  he 
said  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I  did  n't  suppose  you 
did."  Her  cheeks  were  pink.  The  corners 
of  her  mouth  grew  exquisitely  tender. 

"  You  knew  I  did  !  '  Behold,  thou  art  fair, 
my  love ;  behold,  thou  art  fair ;  thou  hast 
doves'  eyes.'  I  took  that  text  because  I 
could  n't  think  of  anything  else  all  summer.  I 
remember  now  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  was  in 
a  garden  —  always  in  a  garden.  The  moon 
was  pretty  bright,  that  summer.  There  were 
more  flowers  blooming  than  common.  It  must 
have  been  a  good  year.  And  I  wrote  my  ser 
mon  lying  out  in  the  pine  woods,  down  where 
you  used  to  sit  hemming  on  your  things.  And 
I  thought  it  was  the  Church,  but  do  all  I 
could,  it  was  a  girl  —  or  an  angel !  " 

"  No,  no  ! "  cried  Mary  Ellen,  in  bitterness 
of  entreaty. 

"  And  then  I  read  the  sermon  to  you  under 
the  pines,  and  you  stopped  sewing,  and  looked 
off  into  the  trees ;  and  you  said  't  was  beauti- 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  91 

ful.  But  I  carried  it  to  old  Parson  Sibley  that 
night,  and  I  can  see  just  how  he  looked  sitting 
there  in  his  study,  with  his  great  spectacles 
pushed  up  on  his  forehead,  and  his  hand  drum 
ming  on  a  book.  He  had  the  dictionary  put 
in  a  certain  place  on  his  table  because  he  found 
he  'd  got  used  to  drumming  on  the  Bible,  and 
he  was  a  very  particular  man.  And  when  I 
got  through  reading  the  sermon,  his  face 
wrinkled  all  up,  though  he  did  n't  laugh  out 
loud,  and  he  came  over  to  me  and  put  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder.  '  William,'  says  he,  '  you  go 
home  and  write  a  doctrinal  sermon,  the  stiffest 
you  can.  This  one 's  about  a  girl.  You  might 
give  it  to  Mary  Ellen  North  for  a  wedding- 
present.'  " 

The  parson  had  grown  almost  gay  under 
the  vivifying  influence  of  memory.  But  Mary 
Ellen  did  not  smile. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated  softly,  "  I  remember." 

"  And  then  I  laughed  a  little,  and  got  out 
of  the  study  the  best  way  I  could,  and  ran 
over  to  you  to  tell  you  what  he  said.  And  I 
left  the  sermon  in  your  work-basket.  I  've 
often  wished,  in  the  light  of  what  came  after 
wards —  I  've  often  wished  I  'd  kept  it.  Some 
how  't  would  have  brought  me  nearer  to 
you." 

It  seemed  as  if  she  were  about  to  rise  from 
her  chair,  but  she  quieted  herself  and  dulled 
the  responsive  look  upon  her  face. 


92  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Mary  Ellen,"  the  parson  burst  forth,  "  I 
know  how  I  took  what  came  on  us  the  very 
next  week,  but  I  never  knew  how  you  took  it. 
Should  you  just  as  lieves  tell  me  ?  " 

She  lifted  her  head  until  it  held  a  noble 
pose.  Her  eyes  shone  brilliantly,  though  in 
deed  they  were  doves'  eyes. 

"  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  she.  "  I  could  n't  have 
told  you  ten  years  ago,  —  no,  nor  five  !  but 
now  it 's  an  old  woman  talking  to  an  old  man. 
I  was  given  to  understand  you  were  tired  of 
me,  and  too  honorable  to  say  so.  I  don't 
know  what  tale  was  carried  to  you  "  — 

"  She  said  you  'd  say  '  yes  '  to  that  rich  fel 
low  in  Sudleigh,  if  I  'd  give  you  a  chance  !  " 

"  I  knew  't  was  something  as  shallow  as 
that.  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  how  I  took  it  I 
put  up  my  head  and  laughed.  I  said,  '  When 
William  Bond  wants  to  break  with  me,  he  '11 
say  so.'  And  the  next  day  you  did  say  so." 

The  parson  wrung  his  hands  in  an  involun 
tary  gesture  of  appeal. 

"  Minnie  !  Minnie  !  "  he  cried,  "  why  did  n't 
you  save  me  ?  What  made  you  let  me  be  a 
fool ? " 

She  met  his  gaze  with  a  tenderness  so  great 
that  the  words  lost  all  their  sting. 

"  You  always  were,  William,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  Always  rushing  at  things  like  Job's 
charger,  and  having  to  rush  back  again.  Never 
once  have  I  read  that  without  thinking  of  you. 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  93 

That 's  why  you  fixed  up  an  angel  out  of  poor 
little  Isabel." 

The  parson  made  a  fine  gesture  of  dissent. 
He  had  forgotten  Isabel. 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  what  else  I  did  ?  " 
Her  voice  grew  hard  and  unfamiliar.  "  I  '11 
tell  you.  I  went  to  my  sister  Eliza,  and  I 
said  :  '  Some  way  or  another,  you  've  spoilt  my 
life.  I  '11  forgive  you  just  as  soon  as  I  can  — 
maybe  before  you  die,  maybe  not.  You  come 
with  me ! '  and  I  went  up  garret,  where  she 
kept  the  chest  with  things  in  it  that  belonged 
to  them  that  had  died.  There  it  sets  now.  I 
stood  over  it  with  her.  *  I  'm  going  to  put  my 
dead  things  in  here,'  I  said.  '  If  you  touch  a 
finger  to  'em,  I  '11  get  up  in  meeting  and  tell 
what  you  've  done.  I  'm  going  to  put  in  every 
thing  left  from  what  you  've  murdered  ;  and 
every  time  you  come  here,  you  '11  remember 
you  were  a  murderer.'  I  frightened  her.  I  'm 
glad  I  did.  She  's  dead  and  gone,  and  I  've 
forgiven  her ;  but  I  'm  glad  now !  " 

The  parson  looked  at  her  with  amazement. 
She  seemed  on  fire.  All  the  smouldering 
embers  of  a  life  denied  had  blazed  at  last.  She 
put  on  her  glasses  and  walked  over  to  the 
chest. 

"  Here  !  "  she  continued  ;  "  let 's  uncover 
the  dead.  I  've  tried  to  do  it  ever  since  she 
died,  so  the  other  things  could  be  burned  ;  but 
my  courage  failed  me.  Could  you  turn  these 


94  TIVERTON   TALES 

screws,  if  I  should  get  you  a  knife  ?  They  're 
in  tight.  I  put  'em  in  myself,  and  she  stood 
by." 

The  little  lid  of  the  till  had  been  screwed 
fast.  The  two  middle-aged  people  bent  over  it 
together,  trying  first  the  scissors  and  then  the 
broken  blade  of  the  parson's  old  knife.  The 
screws  came  slowly.  When  they  were  all  out, 
he  stood  back  a  pace  and  gazed  at  her.  Mary 
Ellen  looked  no  longer  alert  and  vivified.  Her 
face  was  haggard. 

"  I  shut  it,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper.  "  You 
lift  it  up." 

The  parson  lifted  the  lid.  There  they  lay, 
her  poor  little  relics,  — a  folded  manuscript,  an 
old-fashioned  daguerreotype,  and  a  tiny  locket. 
The  parson  could  not  see.  His  hand  shook 
as  he  took  them  solemnly  out  and  gave  them 
to  her.  She  bent  over  the  picture,  and  looked 
at  it,  as  we  search  the  faces  of  the  dead.  He 
followed  her  to  the  light,  and,  wiping  his 
glasses,  looked  also. 

"  That  was  my  picture,"  he  said  musingly. 
"  I  never  've  had  one  since.  And  that  was 
mother's  locket.  It  had  "  -—  He  paused  and 
looked  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary  Ellen  softly ;  "  it 's  got  it 
now."  She  opened  the  little  trinket ;  a  warm, 
thick  lock  of  hair  lay  within,  and  she  touched 
it  gently  with  her  finger.  "  Should  you  like 
the  locket,  because  't  was  your  mother's  ? " 


THE   MORTUARY   CHEST  95 

She  hesitated ;  and  though  the  parson's  tone 
halted  also,  he  answered  at  once  :  — 

"  No,  Mary  Ellen,  not  if  you  '11  keep  it.  I 
should  rather  think  't  was  with  you." 

She  put  her  two  treasures  in  her  pocket,  and 
gave  him  the  other. 

"  I  guess  that 's  your  share,"  she  said,  smil 
ing  faintly.  "  Don't  read  it  here.  Just  take 
it  away  with  you." 

The  manuscript  had  been  written  in  the 
cramped  and  awkward  hand  of  his  youth,  and 
the  ink  upon  the  paper  was  faded  after  many 
years.  He  turned  the  pages,  a  smile  coming 
now  and  then. 

"  '  Thou  hast  doves'  eyes,'  "  he  read,  — 
"  *  thou  hast  doves'  eyes  !  "  He  murmured  a 
sentence  here  and  there.  "  Mary  Ellen,"  he 
said  at  last,  shaking  his  head  over  the  manu 
script  in  a  droll  despair,  "  it  is  n't  a  sermon. 
Parson  Sibley  had  the  rights  of  it.  It 's  a  love- 
letter  !  "  And  the  two  old  people  looked  in 
each  other's  wet  eyes  and  smiled. 

The  woman  was  the  first  to  turn  away. 

"There!"  said  she,  closing  the  lid  of  the 
chest ;  "  we  've  said  enough.  We  've  wiped  out 
old  scores.  We  've  talked  more  about  our 
selves  than  we  ever  shall  again  ;  for  if  old  age 
brings  anything,  it 's  thinking  of  other  people 
—  them  that  have  got  life  before  'em.  These 
your  rubbers  ? " 

The  parson  put  them  on,  with  a  dazed  obe- 


96  TIVERTON   TALES 

dience.  His  hand  shook  in  buckling  them. 
Mary  Ellen  passed  him  his  coat,  but  he  no 
ticed  that  she  did  not  offer  to  hold  it  for  him. 
There  was  suddenly  a  fine  remoteness  in  her 
presence,  as  if  a  frosty  air  had  come  between 
them.  The  parson  put  the  sermon  in  his  inner 
pocket,  and  buttoned  his  coat  tightly  over  it 
Then  he  pinned  on  his  shawl.  At  the  door  he 
turned. 

"Mary  Ellen,"  said  he  pleadingly,  "don't 
you  ever  want  to  see  the  sermon  again  ? 
Should  n't  you  like  to  read  it  over  ?  " 

She  hesitated.  It  seemed  for  a  moment  as 
if  she  might  not  answer  at  all.  Then  she  re 
membered  that  they  were  old  folks,  and  need 
not  veil  the  truth. 

"  I  guess  I  know  it  'most  all  by  heart,"  she 
said  quietly.  "Besides,  I  took  a  copy  before 
I  put  it  in  there.  Good-night !  " 

"  Good-night  !  "  answered  the  parson  joy 
ously.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  and 
went  crunching  down  the  icy  path.  When  he 
had  unfastened  the  horse  and  sat  tucking  the 
buffalo-robe  around  him,  the  front  door  was 
opened  in  haste,  and  a  dark  figure  came  flying 
down  the  walk. 

"  Mr.  Bond  !  "  thrilled  a  voice. 

"Whoa!"  called  the  parson  excitedly.  He 
was  throwing  back  the  robe  to  leap  from  the 
sleigh  when  the  figure  reached  him.  "  Oh  1 " 
said  he ;  "  Isabel ! " 


THE   MORTUARY  CHEST  97 

She  was  breathing  hard  with  excitement  and 
the  determination  grown  up  in  her  mind  dur 
ing  that  last  half  hour  of  her  exile  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Parson,"  —  forgetting  a  more  formal  ad 
dress,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  knee,  —  "I 've 
got  to  say  it !  Won't  you  please  forgive  me  ? 
Won't  you,  please  ?  I  can't  explain  it " 

"Bless  your  heart,  child!"  answered  the 
parson  cordially  ;  "  you  need  n't  try  to.  I 
guess  I  made  you  nervous." 

"  Yes,"  agreed  Isabel,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
"  I  guess  you  did."  And  the  parson  drove 
away. 

Isabel  ran,  light  of  heart  and  foot,  back  into 
the  warm  sitting-room,  where  aunt  Mary  Ellen 
was  standing  just  where  he  had  left  her.  She 
had  her  glasses  off,  and  she  looked  at  Isabel 
with  a  smile  so  vivid  that  the  girl  caught  her 
breath,  and  wondered  within  herself  how  aunt 
Mary  Ellen  had  looked  when  she  was  young. 

"  Isabel,"  said  she,  "you  come  here  and  give 
me  a  corner  of  your  apron  to  wipe  my  glasses. 
I  guess  it 's  drier  'n  my  handkerchief." 


HORN  O'  THE   MOON 

IF  you  drive  along  Tiverton  Street,  and  then 
turn  to  the  left,  down  the  Gully  Road,  you 
journey,  for  the  space  of  a  mile  or  so,  through 
a  bewildering  succession  of  damp  greenery, 
with  noisy  brooks  singing  songs  below  you,  on 
either  side,  and  the  treetops  on  the  level  with 
your  horse's  feet.  Few  among  the  older  in 
habitants  ever  take  this  drive,  save  from  neces 
sity,  because  it  is  conceded  that  the  dampness 
there  is  enough,  even  in  summer,  to  "  give  you 
your  death  o'  cold ; "  and  as  for  the  young,  to 
them  the  place  wears  an  eerie  look,  with  its 
miniature  suggestion  of  impassable  gulfs  and 
roaring  torrents.  Yet  no  youth  reaches  his 
majority  without  exploring  the  Gully.  He  who 
goes  alone  is  the  more  a  hero ;  but  even  he 
had  best  leave  two  or  three  trusty  comrades 
reasonably  near,  not  only  to  listen,  should  he 
call,  but  to  stand  his  witnesses  when  he  after 
wards  declares  where  he  has  been.  It  is  a 
fearsome  thing  to  explore  that  lower  stratum 
of  this  round  world,  so  close  to  the  rushing 
brook  that  it  drowns  your  thoughts,  though  not 
your  apprehensions,  and  to  go  slipping  about 
over  wet  boulders  and  among  dripping  ferns ; 


HORN   O'  THE   MOON  99 

but  your  fears  are  fears  of  the  spirit.  They 
are  inherited  qualms.  You  shiver  because 
your  grandfathers  and  fathers  and  uncles  have 
shivered  there  before  you.  If  you  are  very 
brave  indeed,  and  naught  but  the  topmost 
round  of  destiny  will  content  you,  possibly  you 
penetrate  still  further  into  green  abysses,  and 
come  upon  the  pool  where,  tradition  says,  an 
ancient  trout  has  his  impregnable  habitation. 
Apparently,  nobody  questions  that  the  life  of 
a  trout  may  be  indefinitely  prolonged,  under 
the  proper  conditions  of  a  retired  dusk ;  and 
the  same  fish  that  served  our  grandfathers  for 
a  legend  now  enlivens  our  childish  days.  When 
you  meet  a  youngster,  ostentatiously  setting 
forth  for  the  Gully  Road,  with  bait-box  and 
pole,  you  need  not  ask  where  he  is  going  ; 
though  if  you  have  any  human  sympathy  in 
the  pride  of  life,  you  will  not  deny  him  his 
answer :  — 

"  Down  to  have  a  try  for  the  old  trout ! " 
The  pool  has  been  still  for  many  years. 
Not  within  the  memory  of  aged  men  has  the 
trout  turned  fin  or  flashed  a  speckled  side ;  but 
he  is  to  this  day  an  historical  present.  He 
has  lived,  and  therefore  he  lives  always. 

Those  who  do  not  pause  upon  the  Gully 
Road,  but  keep  straight  on  into  the  open,  will 
come  into  the  old  highway  leading  up  and 
up  to  Horn  o'  the  Moon.  It  is  an  unshaded, 
gravelly  track,  pointing  duly  up-hill  for  three 


loo  TIVERTON   TALES 

long  miles  ;  and  it  has  become  a  sober  way  to 
most  of  us,  in  this  generation  :  for  we  never 
take  it  unless  we  go  on  the  solemn  errand  of 
getting  Mary  Dunbar,  that  famous  nurse,  to 
care  for  our  sick  or  dead.  There  is  a  tradition 
that  a  summer  visitor  once  hired  a  "  shay," 
and  drove,  all  by  herself,  up  to  Horn  o1  the 
Moon,  drawn  on  by  the  elusive  splendor  of  its 
name.  But  she  met  such  a  dissuading  flood 
of  comment  by  the  way  as  to  startle  her  into 
the  state  of  mind  commonly  associated  with 
the  Gully  Road.  Farmers,  haying  in  the  field, 
came  forward,  to  lean  on  the  fence,  and  call 
excitedly,  — 

"Where  ye  goin'  ?  " 

"  Horn  o'  the  Moon,"  replied  she,  having 
learned  in  Tiverton  the  value  of  succinct 
replies. 

"Who's  sick?" 

"Nobody." 

"  Got  any  folks  up  there  ?" 

"  No.     Going  to  see  the  place." 

The  effect  of  this  varied.  Some  looked  in 
amazement ;  one  ventured  to  say,  "  Well,  that 's 
the  beater!"  and  another  dropped  into  the 
cabalistic  remark  which  cannot  be  defined,  but 
which  has  its  due  significance,  "Well,  you 
must  be  sent  for  !  "  The  result  of  all  this  run 
ning  commentary  was  such  that,  when  the 
visitor  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  where  Horn 
o'  the  Moon  lies,  encircled  by  other  lesser 


HORN   O'   THE   MOON  101 

heights,  she  was  stricken  by  its  exceeding  des 
olation,  and  had  no  heart  to  cast  more  than  a 
glance  at  the  noble  view  below.  She  turned 
her  horse,  and  trotted,  recklessly  and  with 
many  stumblings,  down  again  into  friendly. 
Tiverton. 

Horn  o'  the  Moon  is  unique  in  .its '.  mehr> 
choly.  It  has  so  few  trees,  and  those  of  so 
meagre  and  wind-swept  a  nature,  that  it  might 
as  well  be  entirely  bald.  No  apples  grow 
there  ;  and  in  the  autumn,  the  inhabitants  make 
a  concerted  sally  down  into  Tiverton  Street, 
to  purchase  their  winter  stock,  such  of  them 
as  can  afford  it.  The  poorer  folk  —  and  they 
are  all  poor  enough  —  buy  windfalls,  and  string 
them  to  dry  ;  and  so  common  is  dried-apple- 
pie  among  them  that,  when  a  Tivertonian  finds 
this  makeshift  appearing  too  frequently  on  his 
table,  he  has  only  to  remark,  "  I  should  think 
this  was  Horn  o'  the  Moon  !  "  and  it  disappears, 
to  return  no  more  until  the  slur  is  somewhat 
outworn. 

There  is  very  little  grass  at  the  top  of  the 
lonely  height,  and  that  of  a  husky,  whispering 
sort,  in  thin  ribbons  that  flutter  low  little 
songs  in  the  breeze.  They  never  cease  ;  for, 
at  Horn  o'  the  Moon,  there  is  always  a  wind 
blowing,  differing  in  quality  with  the  season. 
Sometimes  it  is  a  sighing  wind  from  other 
heights,  happier  in  that  they  are  sweet  with 
firs.  Sometimes  it  is  exasperating  enough  to 


102  TIVERTON   TALES 

make  the  March  breezes  below  seem  tender  • 
then  it  tosses  about  in  snatching  gusts,  buffet 
ing,  and  slapping,  and  excoriating  him  who 
stands  in  its  way.  Somehow,  all  the  peculiar 
ities  o>:  Horn  o'  the  Moon  seem  referable,  in  a 
rny^teriQUS  fashion,  to  the  wind.  The  people 
spe.a,k  ,in.  high,  strenuous  voices,  striving  to 
hold  their  own  against  its  wicked  strength. 
Most  of  them  are  deaf.  Is  that  because  the 
air  beats  ceaselessly  against  the  porches  of 
their  ears  ?  They  are  a  stunted  race ;  for  they 
have  grown  into  the  habit  of  holding  the  head 
low,  and  plunging  forward  against  that  battling 
element.  Even  the  fowl  at  Horn  o'  the  Moon 
are  not  of  the  ordinary  sort.  Their  feathers 
grow  the  wrong  way,  standing  up  in  a  ragged 
and  disorderly  fashion  ;  and  they,  too,  have  the 
effect  of  having  been  blown  about  and  disar 
ranged,  until  nature  yielded,  and  agreed  to 
their  permanent  roughness. 

Moreover,  all  the  people  are  old  or  middle- 
aged  ;  and  possibly  that  is  why,  again,  the  set 
tlement  is  so  desolate.  It  is  a  disgrace  for 
us  below  to  marry  with  Horn  o'  the  Mooners, 
though  they  are  a  sober  folk ;  and  now  it  hap 
pens  that  everybody  up  there  is  the  cousin  of 
everybody  else.  The  race  is  dying  out,  we 
say,  as  if  we  considered  it  a  distinct  species  ; 
and  we  agree  that  it  would  have  been  wiped 
away  long  ago,  by  weight  of  its  own  eccen 
tricity,  had  not  Mary  Dun  bar  been  the  making 


HORN   O'   THE   MOON  103 

of  it.  She  is  the  one  righteous  among  many. 
She  is  the  good  nurse  whom  we  all  go  to  seek, 
in  our  times  of  trouble,  and  she  perpetually 
saves  her  city  from  the  odium  of  the  world. 

Mary  was  born  in  Tiverton  Street.  We  are 
glad  to  remember  that,  we  who  condemn  by 
the  wholesale,  and  are  assured  that  no  good 
can  come  out  of  Nazareth.  When  she  was  a 
girl  of  eighteen, ^her  father  and  mother  died  ; 
and  she  fell  into  a  state  of  spiritual  exalta 
tion,  wherein  she  dreamed  dreams,  and  had 
periods  of  retirement  within  her  house,  com 
muning  with  other  intelligences.  We  said 
Mary  had  lost  her  mind  ;  but  that  was  difficult 
to  believe,  since  no  more  wholesome  type  of 
womanhood  had  ever  walked  our  streets.  She 
was  very  tall,  built  on  the  lines  of  a  beauty  tran 
scending  our  meagre  strain.  Nobody  approved 
of  those  broad  shoulders  and  magnificent  arms. 
We  said  it  was  a  shame  for  any  girl  to  be 
so  overgrown  ;  yet  our  eyes  followed  her,  de 
lighted  by  the  harmony  of  line  and  action. 
Then  we  whispered  that  she  was  as  big  as  a 
moose,  and  that,  if  we  had  such  arms,  we 
never 'd  go  out  without  a  shawl.  Her  "mit- 
tins  "  must  be  wide  enough  for  any  man  ! 

Mary  did  everything  perfectly.  She  walked 
as  if  she  went  to  meet  the  morning,  and  must 
salute  it  worthily.  She  carried  a  weight  as  a 
goddess  might  bear  the  infant  Bacchus ;  and 
her  small  head,  poised  upon  that  round  throat, 


104  TIVERTON   TALES 

wore  the  crown  of  simplicity,  and  not  of  pride. 
But  we  only  told  how  strong  she  was,  and  how 
much  she  could  lift.  We  loved  Mary,  but 
sensibility  had  to  shrink  from  those  great  pro 
portions  and  that  elemental  strength. 

One  snowy  morning,  Mary's  spiritual  vision 
called  her  out  of  our  midst,  to  which  she 
never  came  back  save  as  we  needed  her.  The 
world  was  very  white  that  day,  when  she  rose, 
in  her  still  house,  dressed  herself  hastily,  and 
roused  a  neighbor,  begging  him  to  harness, 
and  drive  her  up  to  Horn  o'  the  Moon.  Folks 
were  sick  there,  with  nobody  to  take  care  of 
them.  The  neighbor  reasoned,  and  then  re 
fused,  as  one  might  deny  a  person,  however 
beloved,  who  lives  by  the  intuitions  of  an  un 
seen  world.  Mary  went  home  again,  and,  as 
he  believed,  to  stay.  But  she  had  not  hesi 
tated  in  her  allegiance  to  the  heavenly  voice. 
Somehow,  through  the  blinding  snow  and 
unbroken  road,  she  ploughed  her  way  up  to 
Horn  o'  the  Moon,  where  she  found  an  epi 
demic  of  diphtheria  ;  and  there  she  stayed. 
We  marveled  over  her  guessing  how  keenly 
she  was  needed  ;  but  since  she  never  explained, 
it  began  to  be  noised  abroad  that  some  wander 
ing  peddler  told  her.  That  accounted  for  every 
thing  ;  and  Mary  had  no  time  for  talk.  She 
was  too  busy,  watching  with  the  sick,  and 
going  about  from  house  to  house,  cooking  del 
icate  gruels  and  broiling  chicken  for  those  who 


HORN   O'   THE   MOON  105 

were  getting  well.  It  is  said  that  she  even 
did  the  barn  work,  and  milked  the  cows,  during 
that  tragic  time.  We  were  not  surprised. 
Mary  was  a  great  worker,  and  she  was  fond  of 
"creatur's." 

Whether  she  came  to  care  for  these  stolid 
people  on  the  height,  or  whether  the  vision 
counseled  her,  Mary  gave  up  her  house  in  the 
village,  and  bought  a  little  old  dwelling  under 
an  overhanging  hillside,  at  Horn  o'  the  Moon. 
It  was  a  nest  built  into  the  rock,  its  back 
sitting  snugly  there.  The  dark  came  down 
upon  it  quickly.  In  winter,  the  sun  was  gone 
from  the  little  parlor  as  early  as  three  o'clock ; 
but  Mary  did  not  mind.  That  house  was  her 
temporary  shell  ;  she  only  slept  in  it  in  the  in 
tervals  of  hurrying  away,  with  blessed  feet,  to 
tend  the  sick,  and  hold  the  dying  in  untiring 
arms.  I  shall  never  forget  how,  one  morning, 
I  saw  her  come  out  of  the  door,  and  stand 
silent,  looking  toward  the  rosy  east.  There 
was  the  dawn,  and  there  was  she,  its  priestess, 
while  all  around  her  slept.  I  should  not  have 
been  surprised  had  her  lips,  parted  already  in 
a  mysterious  smile,  opened  still  further  in  a 
prophetic  chanting  to  the  sun.  But  Mary  saw 
me,  and  the  alert,  answering  look  of  one  who 
is  a  messenger  flashed  swiftly  over  her  face. 
She  advanced  like  the  leader  of  a  triumphal 
procession. 

"  Anybody  want  me  ? "  she  called.  "  I  '11 
get  my  bunnit." 


io6  TIVERTON    TALES 

It  was  when  she  was  twenty,  and  not  more 
than  settled  in  the  little  house  at  Horn  o'  the 
Moon,  that  her  story  came  to  her.  The  Veaseys 
were  her  neighbors,  perhaps  five  doors  away ; 
and  one  summer  morning,  Johnnie  Veasey 
came  home  from  sea.  He  brought  no  money, 
no  coral  from  foreign  parts,  nor  news  of  grapes 
in  Eshcol.  He  simply  came  empty-handed, 
as  he  always  did,  bearing  only,  to  vouch  for  his 
wanderings,  a  tanned  face,  and  the  bright,  red- 
brown  eyes  that  had  surely  looked  on  things 
we  never  saw.  Adam  Veasey,  his  brother,  had 
been  paralyzed  for  years.  He  sat  all  day  in  the 
chimney  corner,  looking  at  his  shaking  hands, 
and  telling  how  wide  a  swathe  he  could  cut 
before  he  was  afflicted.  Mattie,  Adam's  wife, 
had  long  dealt  with  the  problem  of  an  unsup 
ported  existence.  She  had  turned  into  a  flit- 
ting  little  creature  with  eager  eyes,  who  made 
it  her  business  to  prey  upon  a  more  prosperous 
world.  Mattie  never  went  about  without  a 
large  extra  pocket  attached  to  her  waist ;  into 
this,  she  could  slip  a  few  carrots,  a  couple  of 
doughnuts,  or  even  a  loaf  of  bread.  She  laid 
a  lenient  tax  upon  the  neighbors  and  the  town 
below.  Was  there  a  frying  of  doughnuts  at 
Horn  o'  the  Moon  ?  No  sooner  had  the  odor 
risen  upon  the  air,  than  Mattie  stood  on  the 
spot,  dumbly  insistent  on  her  toll.  Her  very 
clothes  smelled  of  food ;  and  it  was  said  that, 
in  fly-time,  it  was  a  sight  to  see  her  walk 


HORN   O'   THE   MOON  107 

abroad,  because  of  the  hordes  of  insects  set 
tling  here  and  there  on  her  odoriferous  gown. 
When  Johnnie  Veasey  appeared,  Mattie's  soul 
rose  in  arms.  Their  golden  chance  had  come 
at  last. 

"You  got  paid  off?"  she  asked  him,  three 
minutes  after  his  arrival,  and  Johnnie  owned, 
with  the  cheerfulness  of  those  rich  only  in 
hope,  that  he  did  get  paid,  and  lost  it  all,  the 
first  night  on  shore.  He  got  into  the  wrong 
boarding-house,  he  said.  It  was  the  old  num 
ber,  but  new  folks. 

Mattie  acquiesced,  with  a  sigh.  He  would 
make  his  visit  and  go  again,  and,  that  time, 
perhaps  fortune  might  attend  him.  So  she 
went  over  to  old  Mrs.  Hardy's,  to  borrow  a 
"  riz  loaf,"  and  the  wanderer  was  feasted,  ac 
cording  to  her  little  best. 

Johnnie  stayed,  and  Horn  o'  the  Moon  roused 
itself,  finding  that  he  had  brought  the  anti 
podes  with  him.  He  was  the  teller  of  tales. 
He  described  what  he  had  seen,  and  then,  by 
easy  transitions,  what  others  had  known  and 
he  had  only  heard,  until  the  intelligence  of 
these  stunted,  wind-blown  creatures,  on  their 
island  hill,  took  fire ;  and  every  man  vowed  he 
wished  he  had  gone  to  sea,  before  it  was  too 
late,  or  even  to  California,  when  the  gold  craze 
was  on.  Johnnie  had  the  tongue  of  the  impro 
visator,  and  he  loved  a  listener.  He  liked  to 
sit  out  on  a  log,  in  the  sparse  shadow  of  the 


io8  TIVERTON  TALES 

one  little  grove  the  hill  possessed,  and,  with 
the  whispering  leaves  above  him  tattling  un- 
?omprehended  sayings  brought  them  by  the 
wind,  gather  the  old  men  about  him,  and  talk 
them  blind.  As  he  sat  there,  Mary  came 
walking  swiftly  by,  a  basket  in  her  hand. 
Johnnie  came  bolt  upright,  and  took  off  his 
cap.  He  looked  amazingly  young  and  fine, 
and  Mary  blushed  as  she  went  by. 

"  Who 's  that  ?  "  asked  Johnnie  of  the  village 
fathers. 

"  That 's  only  Mary  Dunbar.  Guess  you 
ain't  been  here  sence  she  moved  up." 

Johnnie  watched  her  walking  away,  for  the 
rhythm  of  her  motion  attracted  him.  He  did 
not  think  her  pretty ;  no  one  ever  thought  that. 

It  happened,  then,  that  he  spent  two  or 
three  evenings  at  the  Hardys',  where  Mary 
went,  every  night,  to  rub  grandmother  and  put 
her  to  bed ;  and  while  she  sat  there  in  the 
darkened  room,  soothing  the  old  woman  for 
her  dreary  vigil,  she  heard  his  golden  tales  of 
people  in  strange  lands.  It  seemed  very  won 
derful  to  Mary.  She  had  not  dreamed  there 
were  such  lands  in  all  the  world  ;  and  when 
she  hurried  home,  it  was  to  hunt  out  her  old 
geography,  and  read  it  until  after  midnight. 
She  followed  rivers  to  their  sources,  and  dwelt 
upon  mountains  with  amazing  names.  She 
was  seeing  the  earth  and  its  fullness,  and  her 
heart  beat  fast. 


HORN   OT  THE   MOON  109 

Next  day  she  went  away  for  a  long  case, 
giving  only  one  little  sigh  in  the  going,  to  the 
certainty  that,  when  she  came  back,  Johnnie 
Veasey  would  be  off  on  another  voyage  tc 
lands  beyond  the  sea.  Mary  was  not  of  the  sort 
who  cry  for  the  moon  just  because  they  have 
seen  it.  She  had  simply  begun  to  read  a  fairy 
tale,  and  somebody  had  taken  it  away  from  her 
and  put  it  high  on  the  shelf.  But  on  the  very 
first  morning  after  her  return,  when  she  rose 
early,  longing  for  the  blissful  air  of  her  own 
bleak  solitude,  Mattie  Veasey  stood  there  at 
her  door.  Mary  had  but  one  first  question  for 
every  comer :  — 

"  Anybody  sick  ?  " 

"You  let  me  step  in,"  answered  Mattie,  a 
determined  foot  on  the  sill.  "I  want  to  tell 
you  how  things  stand." 

It  was  evident  that  Mattie  was  going  on  a 
journey.  She  was  an  exposition  of  the  domes 
tic  resources  of  Horn  o'  the  Moon.  Her  dress 
came  to  the  tops  of  her  boots.  It  was  the 
plaid  belonging  to  Stella  Hardy,  who  had  died 
in  her  teens.  It  hooked  behind  ;  but  that  was 
no  matter,  for  the  enveloping  shawl,  belong 
ing  to  old  Mrs.  Titcomb,  concealed  that  youth 
ful  eccentricity.  Her  shoes  —  congress,  with 
world-weary  elastics  at  the  side  —  were  her 
own,  inherited  from  an  aunt ;  and  her  bonnet 
was  a  rusty  black,  with  a  mourning  veil. 
There  was,  at  that  time,  but  one  new  bonnet 


no  TIVERTON   TALES 

at  Horn  o*  the  Moon,  and  its  owner  had  sighed, 
when  Mattie  proposed  for  it,  brazenly  saying 
that  she  guessed  nobody  'd  want  anything  that 
set  so  fur  back.  Whereupon  the  suppliant 
sought  out  Mrs.  Pillsbury,  whose  mourning 
headgear,  bought  in  a  brief  season  of  prosper 
ity,  nine  years  before,  had  become,  in  a  man 
ner,  village  property.  It  was  as  duly  in  public 
requisition  as  the  hearse ;  and  its  owner  cher 
ished  a  melancholy  pride  in  this  official  state. 
She  never  felt  as  if  she  owned  it,  —  only  that 
she  was  the  keeper  of  a  sacred  trust ;  and 
Mattie,  in  asking  for  it,  knew  that  she  de 
manded  no  more  than  her  due,  as  a  citizen 
should.  It  was  an  impersonal  matter  between 
her  and  the  bonnet ;  and  though  she  should 
wear  it  on  a  secular  errand,  the  veil  did  not 
signify.  She  knew  everybody  else  knew  whose 
bonnet  it  was ;  and  that  if  anybody  supposed 
she  had  met  with  a  loss,  they  had  only  to  ask, 
and  she  to  answer.  So,  in  the  consciousness 
of  an  armor  calculated  to  meet  the  world, 
she  skillfully  brought  her  congress  boots  into 
Mary's  kitchen,  and  sat  down,  her  worn  little 
hands  clasped  under  the  shawl. 

"You've  just  got  home,"  said  she.  "I 
s'pose  you  ain't  heard  what 's  happened  to 
Johnnie?" 

Mary  rose,  a  hand  upon  her  chair. 

"  No  !  no  !  He  don't  want  no  nussin'.  You 
set  down.  I  can't  talk  so  —  ready  to  jump  an' 
run.  My !  how  good  that  tea  does  smell  i " 


HORN   O'  THE   MOON  in 

Mary  brought  a  cup,  and  placed  it  at  her 
hand,  with  the  deft  manner  of  those  who  have 
learned  to  serve.  Mattie  sugared  it,  and 
tasted,  and  sugared  again. 

"My!  how  good  that  is!"  she  repeated. 
"  You  don't  steep  it  to  rags,  as  some  folks  do. 
I  have  to,  we  're  so  nigh  the  wind.  Well,  you 
had  n't  been  gone  long  before  Johnnie  had  a 
kind  of  a  fall.  'T  wa'n't  much  of  a  one,  neither, 

—  down  the  ledge.     I  dunno  how  he  done  it 

—  he  climbs  like  a  cat  —  seems  as  if  the  Old 
Boy  was  in  it  —  but   half   his  body  he  can't 
move.     Palsy,    I    s'pose ;  numb,   not   shakin', 
like  Adam's." 

Mary  listened  gravely,  her  hands  on  her 
knees. 

"  How  long  's  he  been  so  ? " 

"  Nigh  on  to  five  weeks." 

"  Had  the  doctor  ?  " 

"Yes,  we  called  in  that  herb-man  over  to 
Saltash,  an'  he  says  there  ain't  no  chance  for 
him.  He  's  goin'  to  be  like  Adam,  only  wuss. 
An'  I  've  been  down  to  the  Poor  Farm,  to  tell 
'em  they've  got  to  take  him  in."  Her  little 
hands  worked  ;  her  eager  eyes  ate  their  way 
into  the  heart.  Mary  could  see  exactly  how 
she  had  had  her  way  with  the  selectmen.  "  I 
told  'em  they  'd  got  to,"  she  repeated.  "  He 
ain't  got  no  money,  an'  we  ain't  got  nuthin', 
an'  have  two  paraletics  on  my  hands  I  can't. 
So  they  told  me  they  'd  give  me  word  to-day ; 


112  TIVERTON   TALES 

an*  I  'm  goin'  down  to  settle  it.  I  'm  in  hopes 
they'll  bring  me  back,  an'  take  him  along 
down." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mary  gravely.     "  Yes." 

"  Well,  now  I  've  come  to  the  beginnin'  o* 
my  story."  Mattie  took  that  last  delicious  sip 
of  tea  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup.  "  He 's  layin' 
in  bed,  an'  Adam  's  settin'  by  the  stove ;  an'  I 
wanted  to  know  if  you  would  n't  run  in,  long 
towards  noon,  an'  warm  up  suthin'  for  'em." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mary  Dunbar.  "I'll 
be  there." 

She  rose,  and  Mattie,  albeit  she  dearly  loved 
to  gossip,  felt  that  she  must  rise,  too,  and  be 
on  her  way.  She  tried  to  amplify  on  what  she 
had  already  said,  but  Mary  did  not  seem  to  be 
listening ;  so,  treading  carefully,  lest  the  dust 
and  dew  beset  her  precious  shoes,  she  took  her 
way  down  the  hill,  like  a  busy  little  ant,  born 
to  scurry  and  gather. 

Mary  looked  hastily  about  the  room,  to  see 
if  its  perfect  order  needed  a  farewell  touch  ; 
and  then  she  drank  her  cup  of  tea,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  morning.  The  air  was  fresh  and 
sweet.  She  wore  no  shawl,  and  the  wind  lifted 
the  little  brown  rings  on  her  forehead,  and 
curled  them  closer.  Mary  held  a  hand  upon 
them,  and  hurried  on.  She  had  no  more 
thought  of  appearances  than  a  woman  in  a  des 
ert  land,  or  in  the  desert  made  by  lack  of 
praise ;  for  she  knew  no  one  looked  at 


HORN   O'  THE   MOON  113 

To  be  clean  and  swift  was  all  her  life  de 
manded. 

Adam  sat  by  the  stove,  where  the  ashes 
were  still  warm.  It  was  not  a  day  for  fires, 
but  he  loved  his  accustomed  corner.  He  was 
a  middle-aged  man,  old  with  the  suffering 
which  is  not  of  years,  and  the  pathos  of  his 
stricken  state  hung  about  him,  from  his  un 
kempt  beard  to  the  dusty  black  clothing  which 
had  been  the  Tiverton  minister's  outworn  suit. 
One  would  have  said  he  belonged  to  the  gen 
eration  before  his  brother. 

"That  you,  Mary  ?"  he  asked,  in  his  shaking 
voice.  "  Now,  ain't  that  good  ?  Come  to  set 
a  spell  ? " 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  responded  Mary,  in  a  swift 
breathlessness  quite  new  to  her. 

"  In  there.  We  put  up  a  bed  in  the  clock- 
room." 

It  was  the  unfinished  part  of  the  house.  The 
Veaseys  had  always  meant  to  plaster,  but  that 
consummation  was  still  afar.  The  laths  showed 
meagrely  ;  it  was  a  skeleton  of  a  room,  —  and, 
sunken  in  the  high  feather-bed  between  the 
two  windows,  lay  Johnnie  Veasey,  his  buoyancy 
all  gone,  his  face  quite  piteous  to  see,  now  that 
its  tan  had  faded.  Mary  went  up  to  the  bed 
side,  and  laid  one  cool,  strong  hand  upon  his 
wrist.  His  eyes  sought  her  with  a  wild  en 
treaty  ;  but  she  knew,  although  he  seemed  to 
suffer,  that  this  was  the  misery  of  delirium,  and 


114  TIVERTON   TALES 

not  the  conscious  mind.  Adam  had  come 
trembling  to  the  door,  and  stood  there,  one 
hand  beating  its  perpetual  tattoo  upon  the 
wall.  Mary  looked  up  at  him  with  that  ab 
stracted  gaze  with  which  we  weigh  and  judge. 

"  He  's  feverish,"  said  she.  "  Mattie  did  n't 
tell  me  that.  How  long  's  he  been  so  ? '' 

"  I  dunno.     I  guess  a  matter  o'  two  days." 

"Two  days?" 

"Well,  it  might  be  off  an'  on  ever  sence  he 
fell."  Adam  was  helpless.  He  depended  upon 
Mattie,  and  Mattie  was  not  there. 

"  What  did  the  doctor  leave  ?  " 

Adam  looked  about  him.  "  'T  was  the  herb 
doctor,"  he  said.  "  He  had  her  steep  some 
trade  in  a  bowl." 

Mary  Dunbar  drew  her  hand  away,  and 
walked  two  or  three  times  up  and  down  the 
bare,  bleak  room.  The  seeking  eyes  were  fol 
lowing  her.  She  knew  how  little  their  dis 
tended  agony  might  mean ;  but  nevertheless 
they  carried  an  entreaty.  They  leaned  upon 
her,  as  the  world,  her  sick  world,  was  wont  to 
lean.  Mary  was,  in  many  things,  a  child  ;  but 
her  attitude  had  grown  to  be  maternal.  Sud 
denly  she  turned  to  Adam,  where  he  stood, 
shaking  and  hesitating,  in  the  doorway. 

"  You  goin'  to  send  him  off  ? " 

"'Pears  as  if  that's  the  only  way,"  shuffled 
Adam. 

"To-day?" 


HORN    O'   THE   MOON  115 

"  Well,  I  dunno  's  they  '11  come  "  — 

Mary  walked  past  him,  her  mind  assured. 

"  There,  that  '11  do,"  said  she.  "  You  set 
down  in  your  corner.  I  '11  be  back  byme-by." 

She  hurried  out  into  the  bleak  world  which 
was  her  home,  and,  at  that  moment,  it  looked 
very  fair  and  new.  The  birds  were  singing, 
loudly  as  they  ever  sang  up  here  where  there 
were  few  leaves  to  nest  in.  Mary  stopped  an 
instant  to  listen,  and  lifted  her  face  wordlessly 
to  the  clear  blue  sky.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
had  been  given  a  gift.  There,  before  one 
of  the  houses,  she  called  aloud,  with  a  long, 
lingering  note,  "  Jacob  !  "  and  Jacob  Pease  rose 
from  his  milking-stool,  and  came  forward. 
Jacob  was  tall  and  snuff-colored,  a  widower  of 
three  years'  standing.  There  was  a  theory  that 
he  wanted  Mary,  and  lacked  the  courage  to 
ask  her. 

"  That  you,  Mary  Dunbar  ? "  said  he. 
"  Anything  on  hand  ? " 

"  I  want  you  to  come  and  help  me  lift," 
answered  Mary. 

Jacob  set  down  his  milk  pail,  and  followed 
her  into  the  Veaseys'  kitchen.  She  drew  out 
the  tin  basin,  and  filled  it  at  the  sink. 

"  Wash  your  hands,"  said  she.  "  Adam, 
you  set  where  you  generally  do.  You  '11  be  in 
the  way." 

Jacob  followed  her  into  the  sick-room,  and 
Adam  weakly  shuffled  in  behind. 


Ii6  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  For  the  land's  sake  ! "  he  began,  but  Mary 
was  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  Jacob  at  the 
foot. 

"  I  '11  carry  his  shoulders,"  she  said,  in  the 
voice  that  admits  no  demur.  "  You  take  his 
feet  and  legs.  Sort  o'  fold  the  feather-bed  up 
round  him,  or  we  never  shall  get  him  through 
the  door." 

"  Which  way  ?  "  asked  Jacob,  still  entirely 
at  rest  on  a  greater  mind. 

"  Out !  "  commanded  Mary,  —  "  out  the  front 
door." 

Adam,  in  describing  that  dramatic  moment, 
always  declared  that  nobody  but  Mary  Dunbar 
could  have  engineered  a  feather-bed  through 
the  narrow  passage,  without  sticking  midway. 
He  recalled  an  incident  of  his  boyhood  when, 
in  the  Titcomb  fire,  the  whole  family  had  spent 
every  available  instant  before  the  falling  of  the 
roof,  in  trying  to  push  the  second-best  bed 
through  the  attic  window,  only  to  leave  it  there 
to  burn.  But  Mary  Dunbar  took  her  patient 
through  the  doorway  as  Napoleon  marched  over 
the  Alps ;  she  went  with  him  down  the  road 
toward  her  own  little  house  under  the  hill. 
Only  then  did  Adam,  still  shuffling  on  behind, 
collect  his  intelligence  sufficiently  to  shout' 
after  her,  — 

"  Mary,  what  under  the  sun  be  you  doin'  of  ? 
What  you  want  me  to  tell  Mattie  ?  S'pose  she 
brings  the  selec'men,  Mary  Dunbar  ! " 


HORN   O'  THE   MOON  117 

She  made  no  reply,  even  by  a  glance.  She 
walked  straight  on,  as  if  her  burden  lightened, 
and  into  her  own  cave-like  house  and  her  little 
neat  bedroom. 

"  Lay  him  down  jest  as  he  is,"  she  said  to 
Jacob.  "We  won't  try  to  shift  him  to-day. 
Let  him  get  over  this." 

Jacob  stretched  himself,  after  his  load,  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  made  up  his 
mouth  into  a  soundless  whistle. 

"  Yes  !  well !  "  said  he.  "  Guess  I  better 
finish  milkin'." 

Mary  put  her  patient  "to-rights,"  and  set 
some  herb  drink  on  the  back  of  the  stove. 
Presently  the  little  room  was  filled  with  the 
steamy  odor  of  a  bitter  healing,  and  she  was 
on  the  battlefield  where  she  loved  to  conquer. 
In  spite  of  her  heaven-born  instinct,  she  knew 
very  little  about  doctors  and  their  ways  of  cure. 
Earth  secrets  were  hers,  some  of  them  inherited 
and  some  guessed  at,  and  luckily  she  had  never 
been  involved  in  those  greater  issues  to  be 
dealt  with  only  by  an  exalted  science.  Later 
in  her  life,  she  was  to  get  acquainted  with  the 
young  doctor,  down  in  Tiverton  Street,  and 
hear  from  him  what  things  were  doing  in  his 
world.  She  was  to  learn  that  a  hospital  is  not 
a  slaughter  house  incarnadined  with  writhing 
victims,  as  some  of  us  had  thought.  She  was 
even  to  witness  the  magic  of  a  great  surgeon  ; 
though  that  was  in  her  old  age,  when  her  atti- 


Ii8  TIVERTON   TALES 

tude  toward  medicine  had  become  one  of  hum 
ble  thankfulness  that,  in  all  her  daring,  she 
had  done  no  harm.  To-day,  she  thought  she 
could  set  a  bone  or  break  up  a  fever ;  and  there 
was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that,  if  other  deeds 
were  demanded  of  her,  she  should  be  led  in 
the  one  true  way.  So  she  sat  down  by  her 
patient,  and  was  watching  there,  hopeful  of 
moisture  on  his  palm,  when  Mattie  broke  into 
the  front  room,  impetuous  as  the  wind.  Mary 
rose  and  stepped  out  to  meet  her,  shutting  the 
door  as  she  went.  Passing  the  window,  she 
saw  the  selectmen,  in  the  vehicle  known  as  a 
long-reach,  waiting  at  the  gate. 

"  Hush,  Mattie  ! "  said  she,  "  you  '11  wake 
him." 

Mattie,  in  her  ill-assorted  respectabilities  of 
dress,  seemed  to  have  been  involved  but  recently 
in  some  bacchanalian  orgie.  Her  shawl  was 
dragged  to  one  side,  and  her  bonnet  sat  rak- 
ishly.  She  was  intoxicated  with  her  own 
surprise. 

"  Mary  Dunbar  !  "  cried  she,  "  I  'd  like  to 
know  the  meanin'  of  all  this  go-round  !  " 

"  There !  "  answered  Mary,  with  a  quietude 
like  that  of  the  sea  at  ebb,  "  I  can't  stop  to 
talk.  I  '11  settle  it  with  the  selec'men.  You 
come,  too." 

Mattie's  eyes  were  seeking  the  bedroom. 
Leave  her  alone,  and  her  feet  would  follow. 
"  You  come  along,"  repeated  Mary,  and  Mattie 
came. 


HORN   O'   THE   MOON  119 

When  the  three  selectmen  saw  Mary  Dun- 
bar  stepping  down  the  little  slope,  they  gath 
ered  about  them  all  their  official  dignity. 
Ebenezer  Tolman  sat  a  little  straighter  than 
usual,  and  uttered  a  portentous  cough.  Lo- 
throp  Wilson,  mild  by  nature,  and  rather  prone 
to  whiffling  in  times  of  difficulty,  frowned, 
with  conscious  effort ;  but  that  was  only  be 
cause  he  knew,  in  his  own  soul,  how  loyally  he 
loved  the  under-dog,  let  justice  go  as  it  might. 
Then  there  was  Eli  Pike,  occupying  himself  in 
pulling  a  rein  from  beneath  the  horse's  tail. 
These  two  hated  warfare,  and  were  nervously- 
conscious  that,  should  they  fail  in  firmness, 
Ebenezer  would  deal  with  them.  Mary  went 
swiftly  up  to  the  wagon,  and  laid  one  hand  upon 
the  wheel. 

"  I  've  got  John  Veasey  in  my  house,"  she 
began  rapidly.  "  I  can't  stop  to  talk.  He  's 
pretty  sick." 

Ebenezer  cleared  his  throat  again. 

"We  understood  his  folks  had  put  him  on 
the  town,"  said  he. 

Mattie  made  a  little  eager  sound,  and  then 
stopped. 

"  He  ain't  on  the  town  yet,"  said  Mary. 
"  He  's  in  my  bedroom.  An'  there  he 's  goin' 
to  stay.  I  've  took  this  job."  She  turned 
away  from  them,  erect  in  her  decision,  and 
went  up  the  path.  Eli  Pike  looked  after  her, 
with  an  understanding  sympathy.  He  was 


120  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  man  who  had  walked  two  miles,  one  night, 
to  shoot  a  fox,  trapped,  and  left  there  helpless 
with  a  broken  leg.  Lothrop  gazed  straight 
ahead,  and  said  nothing. 

"Look  here!"  called  Ebenezer.  "Mary! 
Mary  !  you  look  here  !  " 

Mary  turned  about  at  the  door.  She  was 
magnificent  in  her  height  and  dignity.  Even 
Ebenezer  felt  almost  ashamed  of  what  he  had 
to  say ;  but  still  the  public  purse  must  be 
regarded. 

"  You  can't  bring  in  a  bill  for  services,"  he 
announced.  "  If  he 's  on  the  town,  he  '11  have 
to  go  right  into  the  Poorhouse  with  the  rest." 

Mary  made  no  answer.  She  stood  there 
a  second,  looking  at  him,  and  he  remarked  to 
Eli,  "  I  guess  you  might  drive  on." 

But  Mattie,  following  Mary  up  to  the  house, 
to  talk  it  over,  tried  the  door  in  vain. 

"My  land!"  she  ejaculated,  "if  she  ain't 
bolted  it ! "  So  the  nurse  and  her  patient 
were  left  to  themselves. 

As  to  the  rest  of  the  story,  I  tell  it  as  we 
hear  it  still  in  Tiverton.  At  first,  it  was  reck 
oned  among  the  miracles ;  but  when  the  new 
doctor  came,  he  explained  that  it  accorded 
quite  honestly  with  the  course  of  violated 
nature,  and  that,  with  some  slight  pruning 
here  and  there,  the  case  might  figure  in  his 
books.  What  science  would  say  about  it,  I  do 
not  know  ;  tradition  was  quite  voluble. 


HORN    O'   THE   MOON  121 

It  proved  a  very  long  time  before  Johnnie 
grew  better,  and  in  all  those  days  Mary  Dun- 
bar  was  a  happy  woman.  She  stepped  about 
the  house,  setting  it  in  order,  watching  her 
charge,  and  making  delicate  possets  for  him  to 
take.  When  the  "  herb-man  "  came,  she  turned 
him  away  from  the  door  with  a  regal  courtesy. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  she  despised  his 
knowledge,  as  that  he  knew  no  more  than  she, 
and  this  was  her  patient.  The  young  doctor 
in  Tiverton  told  her  afterwards  that  she  had 
done  a  dangerous  thing  in  not  calling  in  some 
accredited  wearer  of  the  cloth ;  but  Mary  did 
not  think  of  that.  She  went  on  her  way  of  in 
nocence,  delightfully  content.  And  all  those 
days,  Johnnie  Veasey,  as  soon  as  he  came  out 
of  his  fever,  lay  there  and  watched  her  with 
eyes  full  of  a  listless  wonder.  He  was  still 
in  that  borderland  of  helplessness  where  the 
unusual  seems  only  a  part  of  the  new  condition 
of  things.  Neighbors  called,  and  Mary  refused 
them  entrance,  with  a  finality  which  admitted 
no  appeal. 

"  I  've  got  sickness  here,"  she  would  say, 
standing  in  the  doorway  confronting  them. 
"  He  's  too  weak  to  see  anybody.  I  guess  I 
won't  ask  you  in." 

But  one  day,  the  minister  appeared,  his  fat 
gray  horse  climbing  painfully  up  from  the 
Gully  Road.  It  was  a  warm  afternoon  ;  and  as 
soon  as  Mary  saw  him,  she  went  out  of  her 


122  TIVERTON    TALES 

house,  and  closed  the  door  behind  her.  When 
he  had  tied  his  horse,  he  came  toward  her, 
brushing  the  dust  of  the  road  from  his  irre 
proachable  black.  He  was  a  new  minister,  and 
very  particular.  Mary  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  then  seated  herself  on  the  step. 

"  Won't  you  set  down  here  ? "  she  asked. 
"  I  've  got  sickness,  an'  I  can't  have  talkin*  any 
nearer.  I  'm  glad  it 's  a  warm  day." 

The  minister  looked  at  the  step,  and  then 
at  Mary.  He  felt  as  if  his  dignity  had  been 
mildly  assaulted,  and  he  preferred  to  stand. 

"  I  should  like  to  offer  prayer  for  the  young 
man,"  he  said.  "  I  had  hoped  to  see  him." 

Mary  smiled  at  him  in  that  impersonal  way 
of  hers. 

"  I  don't  let  anybody  see  him,"  said  she.  "  I 
guess  we  shall  all  have  to  pray  by  ourselves." 

The  minister  was  somewhat  nettled.  He 
was  young  enough  to  feel  the  slight  to  his 
official  position ;  and  moreover,  there  were 
things  which  his  rigid  young  wife,  primed  by 
the  wonder  of  the  town,  had  enjoined  upon 
him  to  say.  He  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his 
smooth  brown  hair. 

"  I  suppose  you  know,"  said  he,  "  that  you  're 
taking  a  very  peculiar  stand." 

Mary  turned  her  head,  to  listen.  She 
thought  she  heard  her  patient  breathing,  and 
her  mind  was  with  him. 

"You  seem,"  said  the  minister,  "to  have 


HORN   O'   THE   MOON  123 

taken  in  a  man  who  has  no  claim  on  you,  in 
stead  of  letting  him  stay  with  his  people.  If 
you  are  going  to  marry  him,  let  me  advise  you 
to  do  it  now,  and  not  wait  for  him  to  get  well. 
The  opinion  of  the  world  is,  in  a  measure,  to 
be  respected,  —  though  only  in  a  measure." 

Mary  had  risen  to  go  in,  but  now  she  turned 
upon  him. 

"  Married  !  "  she  repeated  ;  and  then  again, 
in  a  hushed  voice,  —  "  married  !  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  minister  testily,  standing 
by  his  guns,  "  married." 

Mary  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then 
again  she  moved  away.  She  glanced  round  at 
him,  as  she  entered  the  door,  and  said  very 
gently,  "I  guess  you  better  go  now.  Good- 
day." 

She  closed  the  door,  and  the  minister  heard 
her  bolt  it.  He  told  his  wife  briefly,  on  reach 
ing  home,  that  there  was  n't  much  chance  to 
talk  with  Mary,  and  perhaps  the  less  there  was 
said  about  it  the  better. 

But  as  Mary  sat  down  by  her  patient's  bed, 
her  face  settled  into  sadness,  because  she  was 
thinking  about  the  world.  It  had  not,  hereto 
fore,  been  one  of  her  recognized  planets  ;  now 
that  it  had  swung  her  way,  she  marveled  at  it. 

The  very  next  night,  while  she  was  eating 
her  supper  in  the  kitchen,  the  door  opened,  and 
Mattie  walked  in.  Mattie  had  been  washing 
late  that  afternoon.  She  always  washed  at  odd 


124  TIVERTON   TALES 

times,  and  often  in  dull  weather  her  undried 
clothes  hung  for  days  upon  the  line.  She  was 
"  all  beat  out,"  for  she  had  begun  at  three,  and 
steamed  through  her  work,  to  have  an  early 
supper  at  five. 

"  There,  Mary  Dunbar  !  "  cried  she  ;  "  I  said 
I  'd  do  it,  an'  I  have.  There  ain't  a  neighbor 
got  into  this  house  for  weeks,  an'  folks  that 
want  you  to  go  nussin'  have  been  turned  away. 
I  says  to  Adam,  this  very  afternoon,  '  I  '11  be 
whipped  if  I  don't  git  in  an'  see  what 's  goin* 
on  ! '  There 's  some  will  have  it  Johnnie  's  got 
well,  an'  drove  away  without  saying  good-by 
to  his  own  folks,  an*  some  say  he  ain't  likely 
to  live,  an'  there  he  lays  without  a  last  word  to 
his  own  brother  !  As  for  the  childern,  they've 
got  an  idea  suthin'  's  been  done  to  uncle 
Johnnie,  an1  you  can't  mention  him  but  they 
cry." 

Mary  rose  calmly  and  began  clearing  her 
table.  "  I  guess  I  would  n't  mention  him, 
then,"  said  she. 

A  muffled  sound  came  from  the  bedroom. 
It  might  have  been  laughter.  Then  there  was 
a  little  crack,  and  Mary  involuntarily  looked 
at  the  lamp  chimney.  She  hurried  into  the 
bedroom,  and  stopped  short  at  sight  of  her 
patient,  lying  there  in  the  light  of  the  flicker 
ing  fire.  His  face  had  flushed,  and  his  eyes 
were  streaming. 

"  I  laughed  so,"  he  said  chokingly.      "  She 


HORN    O'   THE   MOON  125 

always  makes  me.  And  something  snapped 
into  place  in  my  neck.  I  don't  know  what  ft. 
was,  —  but  /  can  move  !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.     Mary  did  not 
touch  it ;  she  only  stood  looking  at  him  with  i 
wonderful  gaze  of  pride  and  recognition,  anc* 
yet  a  strange  timidity.     She,  too,  flushed,  and 
tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  '11  go  and  tell  Mattie,"  said  she,  turning 
toward  the  door.  "  You  want  to  see  her  ?  " 

"For  God's  sake,  no!  not  till  I'm  on  my 
feet."  He  was  still  laughing.  "  I  guess  I  can 
get  up  to-morrow." 

Mary  went  swiftly  out,  and  shut  the  door 
behind  her. 

"I  guess  you  better  not  see  him  to-night," 
she  said.  "  You  can  come  'in  to-morrer.  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  he  'd  be  up  then." 

"  I  told  Adam  "  —  began  Mattie,  but  Mary 
put  a  hand  on  her  thin  little  arm,  and  held  it 
there. 

"I  'd  rather  talk  to-morrer,"  said  she 
gently.  "  Don't  you  come  in  before  'leven ; 
but  you  come.  Tell  Adam  to,  if  he  wants.  I 
guess  your  brother '11  be  gettin'  away  before 
long."  She  opened  the  outer  door,  and  Mattie 
had  no  volition  but  to  go.  "  It 's  a  nice  night, 
ain't  it  ?  "  called  Mary  cheerfully,  after  her* 
"  Seems  as  if  there  never  was  so  many  stars." 

Then  she  went  back  into  the  kitchen,  and 
with  the  old  thrift  and  exactitude  prepared  her 


126  TIVERTON   TALES 

patient's  supper.  He  was  sitting  upright, 
bolstered  against  the  head  of  the  bed  ;  and  he 
looked  like  a  great  mischievous  boy,  who  had, 
In  some  way,  gained  a  long-desired  prize. 

"  See  here  !  "  he  called.  "  Tell  me  I  can't 
get  up  to-morrow  ?  Why,  I  could  walk  !  " 

They  had  a  very  merry  time  while  he  ate. 
Mary  remembered  that  afterwards,  with  a 
bruised  wonder  that  laughter  comes  so  cheap. 
Johnnie  talked  incessantly,  not  any  more  of 
the  wonders  of  the  deep,  but  what  he  meant 
to  do  when  he  got  into  the  world  again. 

"How'd  I  come  here  in  your  house,  any 
way  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Mattie  and  Adam  put  me 
here  to  get  rid  of  me  ?  Tell  me  all  over  again." 

"  I  take  care  of  folks,  you  know,"  answered 
Mary  briefly.  "  I  have,  for  more  'n  two  years. 
It 's  my  business." 

Johnnie  looked  at  her  a  moment,  crimsoning 
as  he  tried  to  speak. 

"  What  you  goin'  to  ask  ?  " 

Mary  started.  Then  she  answered  stead 
ily, - 

"  That 's  all  right.  I  don't  ask  much,  any 
way  ;  but  when  folks  don't  have  ready  money, 
I  never  ask  anything.  There,  you  mustn't 
talk  no  more,  even  if  you  are  well.  I  've  got 
to  wash  these  dishes." 

She  left  him  to  his  meditations,  and  only  once 
more  that  evening  did  they  speak  together. 
When  she  came  to  the  door,  to  say  good-night, 


HORN   O'  THE   MOON  127 

he  was   flat   among  his  pillows,  listening  for 
her. 

"Say!  "  he  called,  "you  come  in.  No,  you 
need  n't  unless  you  want  to ;  but  if  ever  I  earn 
another  cent  of  money,  you  '11  see.  And  I 
ain't  the  only  friend  you  Ve  got.  There  's  a 
girl  down  in  Southport  would  do  anything  in 
the  world  for  you,  if  she  only  knew." 

Next  morning,  Johnnie  walked  weakly  out 
of  doors,  despite  his  nurse's  cautions  ;  for,  not 
knowing  what  had  happened  to  him,  she  was 
in  a  wearying  dark  as  to  whether  it  might  not 
happen  again.  After  his  breakfast,  he  got  a 
ride  with  Jacob  Pease,  who  was  going  down 
Sudleigh  way,  and  Jacob  came  back  without 
him.  He  bore  a  message,  full  of  gratitude,  to 
Mary.  At  Sudleigh,  Johnnie  had  telegraphed, 
to  find  out  whether  the  ship  Firewing  was  still 
in  port ;  and  he  had  heard  that  he  must  lose 
no  time  in  joining  her.  He  should  never  for 
get  what  Mary  had  done  for  him.  So  Jacob 
said  ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  tepid  words,  and 
perhaps  he  remembered  the  message  too 
coldly. 

When  Mattie  came  over,  that  afternoon,  to 
make  her  call,  she  found  the  house  closed. 
Mary  had  gone  on  foot  down  into  Tiverton, 
where  old  Mrs.  Lamson,  who  was  sick  with  a 
fever,  lay  still  in  need.  It  was  many  weeks 
before  she  came  home  again  to  Horn  o'  the 
Moon;  and  then  Grandfather  Sinclair  had 


128  TIVERTON   TALES 

broken  his  leg,  so  that  interest  in  her  miracle 
became  temporarily  inactive. 

Two  years  had  gone  when  there  came  to  her 
a  little  package,  through  the  Tiverton  mail. 
It  was  tied  with  the  greatest  caution,  and  di 
rected  in  a  straggling  hand.  Mary  opened  it 
just  as  she  struck  into  the  Gully  Road,  on  her 
way  home.  Inside  was  a  little  purse,  and  three 
gold  pieces.  She  paused  there,  under  the 
branches,  the  purse  in  one  hand,  and  the  gold 
lying  within  her  other  palm.  For  a  long  time 
she  stood  looking  at  them,  her  face  set  in  that 
patient  sadness  seen  in  those  whose  only  hold 
ing  is  the  past.  It  was  all  over  and  done,  and 
yet  it  had  never  been  at  all.  She  thought  a 
little  about  herself,  and  that  was  very  rare,  for 
Mary.  She  was  not  the  poorer  for  what  her  soul 
desired  ;  she  was  infinitely  the  richer,  and  she 
remembered  the  girl  at  Southport,  not  with  the 
pang  that  once  afflicted  her  heart,  but  with  a 
warm,  outrushing  sense  of  womanly  sympathy. 
If  he  had  money,  perhaps  he  could  marry. 
Perhaps  he  was  married  now.  Coming  out  of 
the  Gully  Road,  she  opened  the  purse  again, 
and  the  sun  struck  richly  upon  the  gold  within. 
Mary  smiled  a  little,  wanly,  but  still  with  a 
sense  of  the  good,  human  kinship  in  life. 

"  I  won't  ever  spend  'em,"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "  I  '11  keep  'em  to  bury  me." 


A   STOLEN   FESTIVAL 

DAVID  MACY'S  house  stood  on  the  spur  of  a 
breezy  upland  at  the  end  of  a  road.  The  far 
away  neighbors,  who  lived  on  the  main  high 
way  and  could  see  the  passin',  often  thanked 
their  stars  that  they  had  been  called  to  no 
such  isolation  ;  you  might,  said  they,  as  well 
be  set  down  in  the  middle  of  a  pastur.  They 
wondered  how  David's  Letty  could  stand  it. 
She  had  been  married  'most  a  year,  and  before 
that  she  was  forever  on  the  go.  But  there  ! 
if  David  Macy  had  told  her  the  sun  rose  in 
the  west,  she  'd  ha'  looked  out  for  it  there 
every  identical  mornin'. 

The  last  proposition  had  some  color  in  it ; 
for  Letty  was  very  much  in  love.  To  an  im 
partial  view,  David  was  a  stalwart  fellow  with 
clear  gray  eyes  and  square  shoulders,  a  pros 
perous  yeoman  of  the  fibre  to  which  America 
owes  her  being.  But  according  to  Letty  he 
was  something  superhuman  in  poise  and  charm. 
David  had  no  conception  of  his  heroic  respon 
sibilities  ;  nothing  could  have  puzzled  him  more 
than  to  guess  how  the  ideal  of  him  grew  and 
strengthened  in  her  maiden  mind,  and  how  her 
after-worship  exalted  it  into  something  thrilling 


130  TIVERTON  TALES 

and  passionate,  not  to  be  described  even  by 
a  tongue  more  facile  than  hers.  Letty  had  a 
vivid  nature,  capable  of  responding  to  those 
delicate  influences  which  move  to  spiritual 
issues.  There  were  throes  of  love  within  her, 
of  aspiration,  of  an  ineffable  delight  in  being. 
She  never  tried  to  understand  them,  nor  did 
she  talk  about  them  ;  but  then,  she  never  tried 
to  paint  the  sky  or  copy  the  robin's  song. 
Life  was  very  mysterious  ;  but  one  thing  was 
quite  as  mysterious  as  another.  She  did  some 
times  brood  for  a  moment  over  the  troubled 
sense  that,  in  some  fashion,  she  spoke  in  an 
other  key  from  "  other  folks,"  who  did  not  ap 
pear  to  know  that  joy  is  not  altogether  joy, 
but  three-quarters  pain,  and  who  had  never 
learned  how  it  brings  its  own  aching  sense  of 
incompleteness  ;  but  that  only  seemed  to  her 
a  part  of  the  general  wonder  of  things.  There 
had  been  one  strange  May  morning  in  her 
life  when  she  went  with  her  husband  into  the 
woods,  to  hunt  up  a  wild  steer.  She  knew 
every  foot  of  the  place,  and  yet  one  turn  of  the 
path  brought  them  into  the  heart  of  a  picture 
thrillingly  new  with  the  unfamiliarity  of  pure 
and  living  beauty.  The  evergreens  enfolded 
them  in  a  palpable  dusk;  but  entrancingly 
near,  shimmering  under  a  sunny  gleam,  stood 
a  company  of  birches  in  their  first  spring  wear. 
They  were  trembling,  not  so  much  under  the 
breeze  as  from  the  hurrying  rhythm  of  the 


A  STOLEN   FESTIVAL  131 

year.  Their  green  was  vivid  enough  to  lave 
the  vision  in  light  ;  and  Letty  looked  beyond 
it  to  a  brighter  vista  still.  There,  in  an  open 
ing,  lay  a  bank  of  violets,  springing  in  the 
sun.  Their  blue  was  a  challenge  to  the  skyey 
blue  above  ;  it  pierced  the  sight,  awaking  new 
longings  and  strange  memories.  It  seemed 
to  Letty  as  if  some  invisible  finger  touched 
her  on  the  heart  and  made  her  pause.  Then 
David  turned,  smiling  kindly  upon  her,  and 
she  ran  to  him  with  a  little  cry,  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  asked,  stroking  her  hair 
with  a  gentle  hand.  "  What  is  it,  little  child  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  's  nothin'  !  "  said  Letty  chokingly. 
"  It  's  only  —  I  like  you  so  !  " 

The  halting  thought  had  no  purple  wherein 
to  clothe  itself;  but  it  meant  as  much  as  if  she 
had  read  the  poets  until  great  words  had  be 
come  familiar,  and  she  could  say  "love."  He 
was  the  spring  day,  the  sun,  the  blue  of  the 
sky,  the  quiver  of  leaves ;  and  she  felt  it,  and 
had  a  pain  at  her  heart. 

Now,  on  an  autumn  morning,  David  was 
standing  within  the  great  space  in  front  of 
the  barn,  greasing  the  wheels  preliminary  to  a 
drive  to  market  ;  and  Letty  stood  beside  him, 
bareheaded,  her  breakfast  dishes  forgotten. 
She  was  a  round  thing,  with  quick  movements 
not  ordinarily  belonging  to  one  so  plump ;  her 
black  hair  was  short,  and  curled  roughly,  and 


132  TIVERTON   TALES 

there  were  freckles  on  her  little  snub  nose. 
David  looked  up  at  her  red  cheeks  and  the 
merry  shine  of  her  eyes,  and  smiled  upon  her. 

"You  look  pretty  nice  this  mornin',"  he 
remarked. 

Letty  gave  a  little  dancing  step  and  laughed. 
The  sun  was  bright  ;  there  was  a  purple  haze 
over  the  hills,  and  the  nearer  woods  were  yel 
low.  The  world  was  a  jewel  newly  set  for 
her. 

"I  am  nice!"  said  she.  "David,  do  you 
know  our  anniversary  's  comin'  on  ?  It  's  'most 
a  year  since  we  were  married,  —  a  year  the 
fifteenth." 

David  loosened  the  last  wheel,  and  rose  to 
look  at  her. 

"  Sho ! "  said  he,  with  great  interest.  "  Is 
that  so  ?  Well,  't  was  a  good  bargain.  Best 
trade  I  ever  made  in  my  life ! " 

"  And  we  Ve  got  to  celebrate,"  said  Letty 
masterfully.  "  I  '11  tell  you  how.  I  Ve  had  it  all 
planned  for  a  month.  We  '11  get  up  at  four, 
have  our  breakfast,  ride  over  to  Star  Pond,  and 
picnic  all  day  long.  We  '11  take  a  boat  and  go 
out  rowin',  and  we'll  eat  our  dinner  on  the 
water  ! " 

David  smiled  back  at  her,  and  then,  with  a 
sudden  recollection,  pursed  his  lips. 

"  I  'm  awful  sorry,  Letty,"  he  said  honestly, 
"  but  I  Ve  got  to  go  over  to  Long  Pastur'  an' 
do  that  fencin',  or  I  can't  put  the  cattle  in 


A  STOLEN   FESTIVAL  133 

there  before  we  turn  'em  into  the  shack.  You 
know  that  fence  was  all  done  up  in  the  spring, 
but  that  cussed  breachy  cow  o'  Tolman's 
hooked  it  down ;  an'  if  I  wait  for  him  to  do 
it  —  well,  you  know  what  he  is  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  can  put  off  your  fen  cm' ! "  cried 
Letty.  "  Only  one  day  !  Oh,  you  can  !  " 

"  I  could  'most  any  other  time,"  said  David, 
with  reason,  "but  here  it  is  'most  Saturday, 
an'  next  week  the  thrashin'-machine  's  comin'. 
I  'm  awful  sorry,  Letty.  I  am,  honest !  " 

Letty  turned  half  round  like  a  troubled  child, 
and  began  grinding  one  heel  into  the  turf. 
She  was  conscious  of  an  odd  mortification.  It 
was  not,  said  her  heart,  that  the  thing  itself  was 
so  dear  to  her  ;  it  was  only  that  David  ought 
to  want  immeasurably  to  do  it.  She  always 
put  great  stress  upon  the  visible  signs  of  an  in- 
visible  bond,  and  she  would  be  long  in  getting 
over  her  demand  for  the  unreason  of  love. 

David  threw  down  the  monkey-wrench,  and 
put  an  arm  about  her  waist. 

"  Come,  now,  you  don't  care,  do  you  ? "  he 
asked  lovingly.  "  One  day  's  the  same  as  an 
other,  now  ain't  it  ? " 

"  Is  it  ? "  said  Letty,  a  smile  running  over 
her  face  and  into  her  wet  eyes.  "  Well,  then, 
le's  have  Fourth  o'  July  fireworks  next  Sunday 
mornin'  !  " 

David  looked  a  little  hurt;  but  that  was 
only  because  he  was  puzzled.  His  sense  of 


134  TIVERTON   TALES 

humor  wore  a  different  complexion  from  Letty's. 
He  liked  a  joke,  and  he  could  tell  a  good  story, 
but  they  must  lie  within  the  logic  of  fun. 
Letty  could  put  her  own  interpretation  on  her 
griefs,  and  twist  them  into  shapes  calculated 
to  send  her  into  hysterical  mirth. 

"  You  see,"  said  David  soothingly,  "  we  're 
goin'  to  be  together  as  long  as  we  live.  It 
ain't  as  if  we  'd  got  to  rake  an'  scrape  an'  plan 
to  git  a  minute  alone,  as  it  used  to  be,  now  is 
it  ?  An'  after  the  fencin'  's  done,  an'  the 
thrashing  an'  we  've  got  nothin'  on  our  minds, 
we  '11  take  both  horses  an'  go  to  Star  Pond. 
Come,  now  !  Be  a  good  girl !  " 

The  world  seemed  very  quiet  because  Letty 
was  holding  silence,  and  he  looked  anxiously 
down  at  the  top  of  her  head.  Then  she  re 
lented  a  little  and  turned  her  face  up  to  his — • 
her  rebellious  eyes  and  unsteady  mouth.  But 
meeting  the  loving  honesty  of  his  look,  her 
heart  gave  a  great  bound  of  allegiance,  and 
she  laughed  aloud. 

"  There  !  "  she  said.  "  Have  it  so.  I  won't 
say  another  word.  /  don't  care  ! " 

These  were  David's  unconscious  victories, 
born,  not  of  his  strength  or  tyranny,  but  out 
of  the  woman's  maternal  comprehension,  her 
lavish  concession  of  all  the  small  things  of  life 
to  the  one  great  code.  She  had  taken  him  for 
granted,  and  thenceforth  judged  him  by  the 
intention  and  not  the  act. 


A   STOLEN   FESTIVAL  135 

David  was  bending  to  kiss  her,  but  he 
stopped  midway,  and  his  arm  fell. 

"  There 's  Debby  Low,"  said  he.  "  By  jinks  ! 
I  ain't  more  'n  half  a  man  when  she 's  round,  she 
makes  me  feel  so  sheepish.  I  guess  it 's  that 
eye  o'  her'n.  It  goes  through  ye  like  a  needle." 

Letty  laughed  light-heartedly,  and  looked 
down  the  path  across  the  lot.  Debby,  a  little, 
bent  old  woman,  was  toiling  slowly  along,  a 
large  carpet-bag  swinging  from  one  hand. 
Letty  drew  a  long  breath  and  tried  to  feel 
resigned. 

"  She  's  got  on  her  black  alpaca,"  said  she. 
"  She  's  comin'  to  spend  the  day  !  " 

David  answered  her  look  with  one  of  com 
miseration,  and,  gathering  up  his  wrench  and 
oil,  "put  for"  the  barn. 

"  I  'd  stay,  if  I  could  do  any  good,"  he  said 
hastily,  "but  I  can't.  I  might  as  well  stan' 
from  under." 

Debby  threw  her  empty  carpet-bag  over  the 
stone  wall,  and  followed  it,  clambering  slowly 
and  painfully.  Her  large  feet  were  clad  in 
congress  boots  ;  and  when  she  had  alighted, 
she  regarded  them  with  deep  affection,  and 
slowly  wiped  them  upon  either  ankle,  a  stork- 
like  process  at  which  David,  safe  in  the  barn, 
could  afford  to  smile. 

"  If  it  don't  rain  soon,"  she  called  fretfully, 
"  I  guess  you  '11  find  yourselves  alone  an'  for 
saken,  like  pelicans  in  the  wilderness.  Anybody 


136  TIVERTON   TALES 

must  want  to  see  ye  to  traipse  up  through  that 
lot  as  I  Ve  been  doin',  an'  git  their  best  clo'es 
all  over  dirt." 

"  You  could  ha'  come  in  the  road,"  said 
Letty,  smiling.  Letty  had  a  very  sweet  tem 
per,  and  she  had  early  learned  that  it  takes  all 
sorts  o'  folks  to  make  a  world.  It  was  a  part  of 
her  leisurely  and  generous  scheme  of  life  to 
live  and  let  live. 

"Ain't  the  road  dustier  'n  the  path?"  in 
quired  Debby  contradictorily.  "  My  stars  !  I 
guess  't  is.  Well,  now,  what  do  you  s'pose 
brought  me  up  here  this  mornin'  ?  " 

Letty's  eyes  involuntarily  sought  the  bag, 
whose  concave  sides  flapped  hungrily  together  ; 
but  she  told  her  lie  with  cheerfulness.  "  I 
don't  know." 

"I  guess  ye  don't.  No,  I  ain't  comin'  in. 
I  'm  goin'  over  to  Mis'  Tolman's,  to  spend  the 
day.  I  'm  in  hopes  she 's  got  b'iled  dish.  You 
look  here  !  "  She  opened  the  bag,  and  searched 
portentously,  the  while  Letty,  in  some  un 
worthy  interest,  regarded  the  smooth,  thick 
hair  under  her  large  poke-bonnet.  Debby  had 
an  original  fashion  of  coloring  it  ;  and  this  no 
one  had  suspected  until  her  little  grandson  in 
nocently  revealed  the  secret.  She  rubbed  it 
with  a  candle,  in  unconscious  imitation  of  an 
actor's  make-up,  and  then  powdered  it  with 
soot  from  the  kettle.  "  I  believe  to  my  soul 
she  does !  "  said  Letty  to  herself. 


A  STOLEN    FESTIVAL  137 

But  Debby,  breathing  hard,  had  taken  some 
thing  from  the  bag,  and  was  holding  it  out  on 
the  end  of  a  knotted  finger. 

"There!"  she  said,  "ain't  that  your'n? 
Vianna  said  't  was  your  engagement  ring." 

Letty  flushed  scarlet,  and  snatched  the  ring 
tremblingly.  She  gave  an  involuntary  look  at 
the  barn,  where  David  was  whistling  a  merry 
stave. 

"  Oh,  my!  "  she  breathed.  "  Where  'd  you 
find  it  ? " 

"  Well,  that 's  the  question  ! "  returned  Debby 
triumphantly.  "  Where  'd  ye  lose  it  ?  " 

But  Letty  had  no  mind  to  tell.  She  slipped 
the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  looked  obstinate. 

"Can't  I  get  you  somethin'  to  put  in  your 
bag  ? "  she  asked  cannily.  Debby  was  diverted, 
though  only  for  the  moment. 

"  I  should  like  a  mite  o'  pork,"  she  answered, 
lowering  her  voice  and  giving  a  glance,  in  her 
turn,  at  the  barn.  "  I  s'pose  ye  don't  want  him 
to  know  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  told  why  ! "  flamed 
Letty,  in  an  indignation  disproportioned  to  its 
cause.  Debby  had  unconsciously  hit  the  raw. 
"  Do  you  s'pose  I  'd  do  anything  David  can't 
hear  ?  " 

"  Law,  I  did  n't  know,"  said  Debby,  as  if  the 
matter  were  of  very  little  consequence.  "  Mis' 
Peleg  Chase,  she  gi'n  me  a  beef-bone,  t'  other 
day,  an'  she  says,  '  Don't  ye  tell  him  ! '  An' 


138  TIVERTON   TALES 

Mis'  Squire  Hill  gi'n  me  a  pail  o'  lard  ;  but  she 
hid  it  underneath  the  fence,  an'  made  me  come 
for  't  after  dark.  I  dunno  how  you  're  goin'  to 
git  along  with  men-folks,  if  ye  offer  'em  the 
whip-hand.  They'll  take  it,  anyways.  Well, 
don't  you  want  to  know  where  I  come  on  this 
ring  ?  " 

Letty  had  taken  a  few  hasty  steps  toward 
the  house.  "Yes,  I  do,"  owned  she,  turning 
about.  "  Where  was  it  ? " 

"  Well,  Sammy  was  in  swimmin',  an'  he  dove 
into  the  Old  Hole,  to  see  'ft  had  any  bottom 
to  't.  Vianna  made  him  vow  he  would  n't  go 
in  whilst  he  had  that  rash  ;  but  he  come  home 
with  his  shirt  wrong  side  out,  an'  she  made  him 
own  up.  But  he  'd  ha'  told  anyway,  he  was  so 
possessed  to  show  that  ring.  He  see  suthin' 
gleamin'  on  a  wilier  root  nigh  the  bank,  an'  he 
dove,  an'  there  't  was.  I  told  Sammy  mebbe 
you  'd  give  him  suthin'  for  't,  an'  he  said  there 
wa'n't  nothin'  in  the  world  he  wanted  but  a 
mite  o'  David's  solder,  out  in  the  shed-cham 
ber." 

"  He  shall  have  it,"  said  Letty  hastily. 
"  I  '11  get  it  now.  Don't  you  say  anything  !  " 
And  then  she  knew  she  had  used  the  formula 
she  detested,  and  that  she  was  no  better  than 
Mrs.  Peleg  Chase,  or  the  wife  of  Squire  Hill. 

She  ran  frowning  into  the  house,  and  down 
and  up  from  kitchen  to  cellar.  Presently  she 
reappeared,  panting,  with  a  great  tin  pan  borne 


A  STOLEN    FESTIVAL  139 

before  her  like  a  laden  salver.  She  set  it  down 
at  Debby's  feet,  and  began  packing  its  contents 
into  the  yawning  bag. 

"  There  ! "  she  said,  working  with  haste. 
"There's  the  solder,  all  of  it.  And  here's 
some  of  our  sweet  corn.  We  planted  late." 

Debby  took  an  ear  from  the  pan,  and,  tear 
ing  open  the  husk,  tried  a  kernel  with  a  criti 
cal  thumb. 

"  Tough,  ain't  it  ? "  she  remarked,  disparag 
ingly.  "  Likely  to  be,  this  time  o'  year.  Is 
that  the  pork?" 

It  was  a  generous  cube,  swathed  in  a  fresh 
white  cloth. 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Letty  breathlessly,  thrust 
ing  it  in  and  shutting  the  bag.  "  There  ! " 

"  Streak  o'  fat  an'  streak  o'  lean  ?  "  inquired 
Debby  remorselessly. 

"  It 's  the  best  we  've  got ;  that 's  all  I  can 
say.  Now  I  've  got  to  speak  to  David  before 
he  harnesses.  Good-by  !  " 

In  a  fever  of  impatience,  she  fled  away  to  the 
barn. 

"Well,  if  ever!"  ejaculated  Debby,  lift 
ing  the  bag  and  turning  slowly  about,  to  take 
her  homeward  path.  "  Great  doin's,  /say  !  " 
And  she  made  no  reply  when  Letty,  prompted 
by  a  tardy  conscience,  stopped  in  the  barn 
doorway  and  called  to  her,  "  Tell  Sammy  I  'm 
much  obliged.  Tell  him  I  shall  make  turn 
overs  to-morrow."  Debby  was  thinking  of  the 


140  TIVERTON   TALES 

pork,  and  the  likelihood  of  its  being  properly 
diversified. 

Letty  swept  into  the  barn  like  a  hurrying 
wind.  The  horses  backed,  and  laid  their  ears 
flat,  and  David,  grooming  one  of  them,  gentled 
him  and  inquired  of  him  confidentially  what 
was  the  matter. 

"  Oh,  David,  come  out  here !  please  come 
out !  "  called  Letty  breathlessly.  "  I  Ve  got 
to  see  you." 

David  appeared,  with  some  wonderment  on 
his  face,  and  Letty  precipitated  herself  upon 
him,  mindless  of  curry-comb  and  horse-hairs 
and  the  fact  that  she  was  presently  to  do  but 
ter.  "  David,"  she  cried,  "  I  can't  stand  it 
I  Ve  got  to  tell  you.  You  know  this  ring  ?  " 

David  looked  at  it,  interested  and  yet  per 
plexed. 

"  Seems  if  I  'd  seen  you  wear  it,"  said  he. 

Letty  gave  way,  and  laughed  hysterically. 

"  Seems  if  you  had  ! "  she  repeated.  "  I  've 
wore  it  over  a  year.  There  ain't  a  girl  in  town 
but  knows  it.  I  showed  it  to  'em  all.  I  told 
'em  't  was  my  engagement  ring." 

David  looked  at  it,  and  then  at  her.  She 
seemed  to  him  a  little  mad.  He  could  quiet 
the  horses,  but  not  a  woman,  in  so  vague  an 
exigency. 

"  What  made  you  tell  'em  that  ?  "  he  asked, 
at  a  venture. 

"  Don't  you  see  ?    There  was  n't  one  of  'em 


A   STOLEN   FESTIVAL  141 

that  was  engaged  but  had  a  ring  —  and  pres 
ents,  David  —  and  they  knew  I  never  had  any 
thing,  or  I  'd  have  showed  'em." 

David  was  not  a  dull  man  ;  he  had  very 
sound  views  on  the  tariff,  and,  though  social 
questions  might  thrive  outside  his  world,  the 
town  blessed  him  for  an  able  citizen.  But  he 
felt  troubled  ;  he  was  condemned,  and  it  was 
the  world's  voice  which  had  condemned  him. 

"  I  don't  know 's  I  ever  did  give  you  any 
thing,  Letty,"  he  said,  with  a  new  pain  stirring 
in  his  face.  "I  don't  b'lieve  I  ever  thought 
of  it.  It  was  n't  that  I  begrudged  anything." 

"  Oh,  my  soul,  no  !  "  cried  Letty,  in  an  agony 
of  her  own.  "  I  knew  how  't  was.  It  wa'n't 
your  way,  but  they  didn't  know  that.  And 
I  could  n't  have  'em  thinkin'  what  they  did 
think,  now  could  I  ?  So  I  bought  me  —  David, 
I  bought  me  that  high  comb  I  used  to  wear, 
and  —  and  a  blue  handkerchief  —  and  a  thim 
ble  —  and  —  and  —  this  ring.  And  I  said  you 
give  'em  to  me.  And  I  trusted  to  chance  for 
your  never  findin'  it  out.  But  I  always  hated 
the  things  ;  and  as  soon  as  we  were  married,  I 
broke  the  comb,  and  burnt  up  the  handker 
chief,  and  hammered  the  thimble  into  a  little 
wad,  and  buried  it.  But  I  did  n't  dare  to  stop 
wearin'  the  ring,  for  fear  folks  would  notice. 
Then  t'  other  day  I  felt  so  about  it  I  knew  the 
time  had  come,  and  I  went  down  to  the  Old 
Hole  and  threw  it  in.  And  now  that  hateful 


142  TIVERTON    TALES 

Sammy 's  found  it  and  brought  it  back,  and 
I  Ve  sent  him  your  solder,  and  Debby  's  pro 
mised  me  she  would  n't  tell  you  about  the  pork, 
&nd  I  —  I  'm  no  better  than  the  rest  of  'em 
that  lie  and  lie  and  don't  let  their  men-folks 
know  !  "  Letty  was  sobbing  bitterly,  and  Da 
vid  drew  her  into  his  arms  and  laid  his  cheek 
down  on  her  hair.  His  heart  was  aching  too. 
They  had  all  the  passionate  sorrow  of  children 
over  some  grief  not  understood. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  ? "  he  asked  at 
length. 

"  When  ?  "  said  Letty  chokingly. 

"  Then  —  when  folks  expected  things  — 
before  we  were  married." 

«  Oh,  David,  I  could  n't  !  " 

"  No,"  said  David  sadly,  "  I  s'pose  you 
couldn't." 

Letty  had  been  holding  one  hand  very 
tightly  clenched.  It  was  a  plump  hand,  with 
deep  dimples  and  firm,  short  fingers.  She 
unclasped  it,  and  stretched  out  toward  him  a 
wet,  pink  palm. 

"  There  !  "  she  said  despairingly.  "  There 's 
the  ring." 

Again  David  felt  his  inadequacy  to  the  situ 
ation.  "  Don't  you  want  to  wear  it  ? "  he 
hesitated.  "  It 's  real  pretty.  What 's  that  red 
stone  ? " 

"  I  hate  it  !  "  cried  Letty  viciously.  "  It 's 
a  garnet.  Oh,  David,  don't  you  ever  let  me 
set  eyes  on  it  again  !  " 


A   STOLEN    FESTIVAL  143 

David  took  it  slowly  from  her  hand.  He 
drew  out  his  pocket-book,  opened  it,  and 
dropped  the  ring  inside.  "There!"  he  said, 
"  I  guess  't  won't  do  me  no  hurt  to  come  acrost 
it  once  in  a  while."  Then  they  kissed  each 
other  again,  like  two  children  ;  Letty's  tears 
wet  his  face,  and  he  felt  them  bitterer  than  if 
they  had  been  his  own. 

But  for  Letty  the  air  had  cleared.  Now, 
she  felt,  there  was  no  trouble  in  her  path. 
She  had  all  the  irresponsible  joy  of  one  who 
has  had  a  secret,  and  feels  the  burden  roll 
away.  She  was  like  Christian  without  his 
pack.  She  put  her  hands  on  David's  shoulders, 
and  looked  at  him  radiantly. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  'm  just 
as  wicked  as  I  was  before  ;  but  it  don't  seem 
to  make  any  difference,  now  you  know  it ! " 

Though  David  also  smiled,  he  was  regarding 
her  with  a  troubled  wonder.  He  never  ex 
pected  to  follow  these  varying  moods.  They 
were  like  swallow-flights,  and  he  was  content 
to  see  the  sun  upon  their  wings.  So  he  drove 
thoughtfully  off,  and  Letty  went  back  to  her 
work  with  a  singing  heart.  She  was  not  quite 
sure  that  it  was  right  to  be  happy  again,  all  at 
once,  but  she  could  not  still  her  blood.  To  be 
forgiven,  to  find  herself  free  from  the  haunting 
consciousness  that  she  could  deceive  the  crea 
ture  to  whom  she  held  such  passionate  alle 
giance  —  this  was  enough  to  shape  a  new  heaven 


144  TIVERTON   TALES 

and  a  new  earth.  Her  simple  household  duties 
took  on  the  significance  of  noble  ceremonies. 
She  sang  as  she  went  about  them,  and  the 
words  were  those  of  a  joyous  hymn.  She 
seemed  to  be  serving  in  a  temple,  making  it 
clean  and  fragrant  in  the  name  of  love. 

Saturday  was  a  day  born  of  heavenly  inten 
tions.  Letty  ran  out  behind  the  house,  where 
the  ground  rose  abruptly,  and  looked  off,  en 
tranced,  into  the  blue  distance.  It  was  the 
stillest  day  of  all  the  fall.  Not  a  breath  stirred 
about  her ;  but  in  the  maple  grove  at  the  side 
of  the  house,  where  the  trees  had  turned  early 
under  the  chill  of  an  unseasonable  night,  yel 
low  leaves  were  sifting  down  without  a  sound. 
Goldenrod  was  growing  dull,  clematis  had  rip 
ened  into  feathery  spray,  and  she  knew  how 
the  closed  gentians  were  painting  great  purple 
dashes  by  the  side  of  the  road.  "  Oh  !  "  she 
cried  aloud,  in  rapture.  It  was  her  wedding 
day  ;  a  year  ago  the  sun  had  shone  as  warmly 
and  benignantly  as  he  was  shining  now,  and  the 
same  haze  had  risen,  like  an  exhalation,  from 
the  hills.  She  saw  a  special  omen  in  it,  and 
felt  herself  the  child  of  happy  fortune,  to  be  so 
mothered  by  the  great  blue  sky.  Then  she  ran 
in  to  give  David  his  breakfast,  and  tell  him,  as 
they  sat  down,  that  it  was  their  wedding  morn 
ing.  As  she  went,  she  tore  a  spray  of  blood- 
red  woodbine  from  the  wall,  and  bound  it 
round  her  waist. 


A   STOLEN   FESTIVAL  145 

But  David  was  not  ready  for  breakfast ;  he 
was  talking  with  a  man  at  the  barn,  and  half 
an  hour  later  came  hurrying  in  to  his  retarded 
meal. 

"I've  got  to  eat  an'  run,"  said  he;  "Job 
Fisher  kep' me.  It's  about  that  ma'sh.  But 
the  time  wa'n't  wasted.  He  '11  sell  ten  acres 
for  twenty  dollars  less  'n  he  said  last  week. 
Too  bad  to  keep  you  waitin'  !  You  'd  ought 
to  eat  yours  while 't  was  hot." 

Letty,  with  a  little  smile  all  to  herself,  sat 
demurely  down  and  poured  coffee ;  this  was 
no  time  to  talk  of  anniversaries.  David  ate  in 
haste,  and  said  good-by.  f 

"  I  'm  goin'  down  the  lot 'to  get  my  withes," 
said  IIQ.  "  Whilst  I  'm  gone,  you  put  me  up  a 
mite  o'  luncheon.  I  sha'n't  lay  off  to  come 
home  till  night." 

"  Oh,  David  !  "  said  Letty,  with  a  little  cry. 
Then  the  same  knowing  smile  crept  over  her 
face.  "No,  I  sha'n't,"  added  she  willfully. 
"  I  'm  goin'  to  bring  it  to  you." 

"Fetch  me  my  dinner?  Why,  it's  a  mile 
and  a  half  'cross  lots  !  I  guess  you  won't  !  " 

"  You  go  right  along,  David,"  said  Letty  de 
cisively.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word. 
I  ain't  seen  the  Long  Pastur'  this  summer, 
and  I  'm  com  in'.  Good-by  !  "  She  disappeared 
down  the  cellar  stairs  with  the  butter-plate 
poised  on  a  pyramid  of  dishes,  and  David,  hav 
ing  no  time  to  argue,  went  off  to  his  work. 


146  TIVERTON   TALES 

About  ten  o'clock  Letty  took  her  way  down 
to  the  Long  Pasture  ;  she  was  a  very  happy 
woman,  and  she  could  hold  her  happiness  be 
fore  her  face,  regarding  it  frankly  and  with  a 
full  delight.  The  material  joys  of  life  might 
seem  to  escape  her ;  but  she  could  have  them, 
after  all.  The  great  universe,  warm  with  sun 
/  and  warm  with  love,  was  on  her  side.  Even 
the  day  seemed  something  tangible  in  gracious 
being  ;  and  as  Letty  trudged  along,  her  bas 
ket  on  her  arm,  she  reasoned  upon  her  own 
riches  and  owned  she  had  enough.  David  was 
not  like  anybody  else ;  but  he  was  better  than 
anybody  else,  and  he  was  hers.  Even  his  faults 
were  dearer  than  other  men's  virtues.  She 
heard  the  sound  of  his  axe  upon  the  stakes, 
breaking  the  lovely  stillness  with  a  signifi 
cance  lovelier  still. 

"  David  !  "  she  called,  long  before  reaching 
the  little  brook  that  runs  beneath  the  bank,  and 
he  leaped  the  fence  and  came  to  meet  her. 
"  David  !  "  she  repeated,  and  looked  up  in  his 
face  with  eyes  so  solemn  and  so  full  of  light 
that  he  held  her  still  a  moment  to  look  at  her. 

"Letty,"  he  said,  "  you  're  real  pretty!" 
And  then  they  both  laughed,  and  walked  on 
together  through  the  shade. 

The  day  knit  up  its  sweet,  long  minutes  full 
of  the  serious  beauty  of  the  woods.  David 
worked  hard,  and  for  a  time  Letty  lingered 
near  him ;  then  she  strayed  away,  and  came 


A  STOLEN    FESTIVAL  147 

back  to  him,  from  moment  to  moment,  with 
wonderful  treasures.  Now  it  was  cress  from 
the  spring,  now  a  palm-full  of  partridge  ber 
ries,  or  a  cluster  of  checkerberry  leaves  for  a 
"cud,"  or  a  bit  of  wood-sorrel.  By  and  by  the 
fall  stillness  gave  out  a  breath  of  heat,  and  the 
sun  stood  high  overhead.  Letty  spread  out 
her  dinner,  and  David  made  her  a  fire  among 
the  rocks.  The  smoke  rose  in  a  blue  efflo 
rescence  ;  and  with  the  sweet  tang  of  burning 
wood  yet  in  the  air,  they  sat  down  side  by  side, 
drinking  from  one  cup,  and  smiling  over  the 
foolish  nothings  of  familiar  talk.  At  the  end 
of  the  meal,  Letty  took  a  parcel  from  the  bas 
ket,  something  wrapped  in  a  very  fine  white 
napkin.  She  flushed  a  little,  unrolling  it,  and 
her  eyes  deepened. 

"  What 's  all  this  ?  "  asked  David,  sniffing 
the  air.  "  Fruit-cake  ? " 

Letty  nodded  without  looking  at  him  ;  there 
was  a  telltale  quivering  in  her  face.  She  di 
vided  the  cake  carefully,  and  gave  her  husband 
half.  David  had  lain  back  on  a  piny  bank ; 
and  as  he  ate,  his  eyes  followed  the  treetops, 
swaying  a  little  now  in  a  rhythmic  wind.  But 
Letty  ate  her  piece  as  if  it  were  sacramental 
bread.  She  put  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  he 
stroked  the  short,  faithful  fingers,  and  then 
held  them  close.  He  smiled  at  her ;  and  for  a 
moment  he  mused  again  over  that  starry  light 
in  her  eyes.  Then  his  lids  fell,  and  he  had  a 


148  TIVERTON   TALES 

little  nap,  while  Letty  sat  and  dreamed  back 
over  the  hours,  a  year  and  more  ago,  when  her 
mother's  house  smelled  of  spices,  and  this  cake 
was  baked  for  her  wedding  day. 

When  they  went  home  again,  side  by  side, 
the  fencing  was  all  done,  and  David  had  an 
after-consciousness  of  happy  playtime.  He 
carried  the  basket,  with  his  axe,  and  Letty,  like 
an  untired  little  dog,  took  brief  excursions  of 
discovery  here  and  there,  and  came  back  to  his 
side  with  her  weedy  treasures.  Once  —  was 
it  something  in  the  air  ?  —  he  called  to  her  :  — 

"  Say,  Letty,  wa'n't  it  about  this  kind  o* 
weather  the  day  we  were  married  ?  " 

But  Letty  gave  a  little  cry,  and  pointed  out 
a  frail  white  butterfly  on  a  mullein  leaf.  "  See 
there,  David  !  how  cold  he  looks  !  I  'd  like  to 
take  him  along.  He '11  freeze  to-night."  David 
forgot  his  question,  and  she  was  glad.  Some 
inner  voice  was  at  her  heart,  warning  her  to 
leave  the  day  unspoiled.  Her  joy  lay  in  re 
membering  ;  it  seemed  a  small  thing  to  her 
that  he  should  forget. 

"  We  've  had  a  real  good  time,"  he  said,  as 
he  gave  her  the  basket  at  the  kitchen  door. 
"  Now,  as  soon  as  thrashin'  's  done,  we  '11  go  to 
Star  Pond." 

After  supper  they  covered  up  the  squashes, 
for  fear  of  a  frost ;  and  then  they  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  field,  and  looked  at  the  harvest 
moon,  risen  in  a  great  effrontery  of  splendor. 


A   STOLEN    FESTIVAL  149 

"Letty,"  asked  David  suddenly,  "should  n't 
you  like  to  put  on  your  little  ring  ?  It 's  right 
here  in  my  pocket." 

"No!  no!"  said  Letty  hastily.  "I  never 
want  to  set  eyes  on  it  again." 

"  I  guess  I  '11  get  you  another  one  't  you 
could  wear.  I  looked  t'  other  day  when  I  went 
to  market ;  but  there  was  so  many  I  did  n't 
das't  to  make  a  choice  unless  you  was  with 
me." 

Letty  clung  to  him  passionately.  "Oh, 
David,"  she  cried,  with  a  break  in  her  voice, 
"  I  don't  want  any  rings.  I  want  just  you." 

David  put  out  one  hand  and  softly  touched 
the  little  blue  kerchief  about  her  head.  "  Any 
way,"  he  said,  "  we  won't  have  any  more  se 
crets  from  one  another,  will  we  ?  " 

Letty  gave  a  little  start,  and  she  caught  her 
breath  before  answering  : — 

"  No,  we  won't  —  not  unless  they  're  nice 
ones!" 


A  LAST  ASSEMBLING 

THIS  happened  in  what  Dilly  Joyce,  in  de 
ference  to  a  form  of  speech,  was  accustomed 
to  call  her  young  days ;  though  really  her 
spirit  seemed  to  renew  itself  with  every  step, 
and  her  body  was  to  the  last  a  willing  instru 
ment.  She  lived  in  a  happy  completeness 
which  allowed  her  to  carry  on  the  joys  of 

I  youth  into  the  maturity  of  years.  But  things 
did  happen  to  her  from  twenty  to  thirty-five 
which  could  never  happen  again.  When  Dilly 
was  a  girl,  she  fell  in  love,  and  was  very  heartily 
and  honestly  loved  back  again.  She  had  been 

jborn  into  such  willing  harmony  with  natural 
laws,  that  this  in  itself  seemed  to  belong  to 
her  life.  It  partook  rather  of  the  faithfulness 
of  the  seasons  than  of  human  tragedy  or 
strenuous  overthrow.  Even  so  early  she  felt 
great  delight  in  natural  things ;  and  when  her 
heart  turned  to  Jethro  Moore,  she  had  no  doubt 
whatever  of  the  straightness  of  its  path.  She 

.  trusted  all  the  primal  instincts  without  know- 
ing  she  trusted  them.  She  was  thirsty  ;  here 
was  water,  and  she  drank.  Jethro  was  a  little 
older  than  she,  the  son  of  a  minister  in  a 
neighboring  town.  His  father  had  marked  out 


A   LAST   ASSEMBLING  151 

his  plan  of  life  ;  but  Jethro  had  had  enough  to 
do  with  the  church  on  hot  summer  Sundays, 
when  "fourthly"  and  "sixthly"  lulled  him  into 
a  pleasing  coma,  and  when  even  the  shimmer 
of  Mrs.  Chase's  shot  silk  failed  to  awaken  his 
deep  eyes  to  their  accustomed  delight  in  fabric 
and  color.  To  him,  the  church  was  a  concrete 
and  very  dull  institution :  to  his  father,  it  was 
a  city  set  on  a  hill^  whence  a  shining  path  led 
direct  to  God's  New  Jerusalem.  Therefore  it 
was  easy  enough  for  the  boy  to  say  he  pre 
ferred  business,  and  that  he  wanted  uncle 
Silas  to  take  him  into  his  upholstery  shop  ; 
and  he  never,  so  long  as  he  lived,  understood 
his  father's  tragic  silence  over  the  choice.  He 
had  broken  the  succession  in  a  line  of  priests ; 
but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  simply  told 
what  he  wanted  to  do  for  a  living.  So  he 
went  away  to  the  city,  and  news  came  flying 
back  of  his  wonderful  fitness  for  the  trade. 
He  understood  colors,  fabrics,  design  ;  he  had 
been  sent  abroad  for  ideas,  and  finally  he  was 
dispatched  to  the  Chicago  house,  to  oversee 
the  business  there.  Thus  it  was  many  years 
before  Dilly  met  him  again  ;  but  they  remained 
honestly  faithful,  each  from  a  lovely  simpli 
city  of  nature,  but  a  simplicity  quite  different 
in  kind.  Jethro  did  not  grow  rich  very  fast 
(uncle  Silas  saw  to  that),  but  he  did  prosper ; 
and  he  was  ready  to  marry  his  girl  long  before 
she  owned  herself  ready  to  marry  him.  She 


152  TIVERTON   TALES 

took  care  of  a  succession  of  aged  relatives,  all 
afflicted  by  a  strange  and  interesting  diversity 
of  trying  diseases  ;  and  then,  after  the  last 
death,  she  settled  down,  quite  poor,  in  a  little 
house  on  the  Tiverton  Road,  and  "went  out 
nussin',"  the  profession  for  which  her  previous 
life  had  fitted  her.  With  a  careless  generosity, 
she  made  over  to  her  brother  the  old  farm 
house  where  they  were  born,  because  he  had  a 
family  and  needed  it.  But  he  died,  and  was 
soon  followed  by  his  wife  and  child ;  and  now 
Dilly  was  quite  alone  with  the  house  and 
the  family  debts.  The  time  had  come,  wrote 
Jethro,  for  them  to  marry.  She  was  free,  at 
last,  and  he  had  enough.  Would  she  take 
him,  now  ?  Dilly  answered  quite  frankly  and 
from  a  serenity  born  of  faith  in  the  path  before 
her  and  a  certainty  that  no  feet  need  slip.  She 
was  ready,  she  wrote.  She  hoped  he  was  will 
ing  she  should  sell  the  old  place,  to  pay  Tom's 
debts.  That  would  leave  her  without  a  cent ; 
but  since  he  was  coming  for  her,  and  she 
need  n't  go  to  Chicago  alone,  she  did  n't  know 
that  there  was  anything  to  worry  about.  He 
would  buy  her  ticket.  There  was  an  ineffable 
simplicity  about  Dilly.  She  had  no  respect 
whatever  for  money,  save  as  a  puzzling  means 
to  a  few  necessary  ends.  And  now  the  place 
had  been  sold,  and  Jethro  was  coming  in  a 
month.  Meanwhile  Dilly  was  to  pack  up  the 
few  family  effects  she  could  afford  to  keep, 
and  the  rest  would  go  by  auction. 


A  LAST   ASSEMBLING  153 

Little  as  she  was  accustomed  to  dread  ex 
periences  which  came  in  the  inevitable  order 
of  nature,  she  did  think  of  the  last  day  and 
night  in  the  old  house  as  something  of  an 
ordeal.  People  felt  that  the  human  meant 
very  little  to  Dilly  ;  but  that  was  not  true.  It 
was  only  true  that  she  held  herself  remote 
from  personal  intimacies  ;  but  all  the  fine,  in 
visible  bonds  of  race  and  family  took  hold  of 
her  like  irresistible  factors,  and  welded  her  to 
the  universe  anew. 

As  she  started  out  from  her  little  house, 
this  summer  morning,  and  began  her  three- 
mile  walk  to  the  old  homestead,  she  felt  as  if 
some  solemn  event  in  her  life  were  about  to 
happen  ;  her  heart  beat  higher,  and  brought 
about  the  suffocating  feeling  of  a  hand  laid 
upon  the  throat.  She  was  a  slight  creature, 
with  a  delicate  face  and  fine  black  hair.  Her 
slender  body  seemed  all  made  for  action,  and 
the  poise  of  an  assured  motion  dwelt  in  it  and 
wrapped  about  its  angularity  like  a  gracious 
charm.  She  was  walking  down  a  lane,  her 
short  skirts  brushed  by  the  morning  dew. 
She  chose  to  go  'cross  lots,  not  because  in 
this  case  it  was  nearer  than  the  road,  but  be 
cause  it  seemed  impossible  to  go  another  way. 
Yet  never  in  her  life  had  she  seen  less  of  the 
outward  garment  of  things  than  she  was  see 
ing  this  morning.  A  flouting  bobolink  flew 
from  stake  to  stake  in  front  of  her,  and  bub- 


154  TIVERTON   TALES 

bled  out  in  melody.  She  heard  a  scythe 
swishing  in  a  neighboring  field,  and  the  musi 
cal  call  of  the  mowing-machine  afar,  and  she 
did  not  look  up.  Dumb  to  the  beautiful  outer 
world,  she  was  broad  awake  to  human  souls  : 
the  souls  of  the  Joyces,  alive  so  long  before 
her  and  stretching  back  into  an  unknown  past. 
They  had  lived,  one  after  another,  in  the  old 
house,  since  colonial  times ;  and  now,  after 
this  quiet  act  of  a  concluding  drama,  Dilly  was 
going  to  lower  the  curtain,  and  sweep  them 
from  the  stage. 

Her  mind  was  peopled  with  figures.  She 
thought  of  Jethro,  too.  He  seemed  to  be 
coming  ever  nearer  and  nearer.  She  could 
hear  his  tread  marching  into  her  life,  and  could 
see  his  face.  It  was  very  moving,  as  she  re 
membered  it.  A  long  line  of  scholarly  for 
bears  had  dowered  him  with  a  refinement  and 
grace  quite  startling  in  this  unornamented  spot, 
and  some  old  Acadian  ancestor  had  lent  him 
beauty.  His  eyes  were  dark,  and  they  held  an 
unfathomable  melancholy.  The  line  of  his 
forehead  and  nose  ran  haughtily  and  yet  deli 
cate  ;  and  even  after  years  of  absence,  Dilly 
sometimes  caught  her  breath  when  she  thought 
of  the  way  his  head  was  set  upon  his  shoul 
ders.  She  had  never  in  her  life  seen  a  man 
or  woman  who  was  entirely  beautiful,  and  he 
saturated  her  longing  like  a  prodigal  stream. 

She  was  a  little  dazed  when  she  climbed  the 


A  LAST   ASSEMBLING  155 

low  stone  wall,  crossed  the  road,  and  came  into 
the  grassy  wilderness  of  the  Joyce  back  yard. 
Nature  had  triumphed  riotously,  as  she  will 
when  niggardly  thrift  is  away.  The  grass  lay 
rich  and  shining,  lodged  by  last  night's  shower, 
and  gate  and  cellar-case  were  choked  by  it. 
The  cinnamon  roses  bloomed  in  a  spicy  har 
diness  of  pink,  and  the  gnarled  apple-trees  had 
shed  their  broken  branches,  and  were  covered 
with  little  green  buttons  of  fruit.  Dilly  stopped 
to  look  about  her,  and  her  eyes  filled.  The 
tears  were  hot ;  they  hurt  her,  and  so  recalled 
her  to  the  needs  of  life. 

"  There  !  "  she  said,  "  I  must  n't  do  so  !  "  — 
and  she  walked  straight  forward  through  the 
open  shed,  and  fitted  her  key  in  the  lock.  The 
door  sagged  ;  but  she  pushed  it  open  and 
stepped  in.  The  deserted  kitchen  lay  there  in 
desolate  order*  and  the  old  Willard  clock  slept 
upon  the  wall.  Dilly  hastily  pushed  a  chair 
before  it  (this  was  the  only  chair  old  Daniel 
Joyce  would  allow  the  children  to  climb  in) 
and  wound  the  clock.  It  began  ticking  slowly, 
with  the  old,  remembered  sound.  Somehow 
it  seemed  beautiful  to  Dilly  that  the  clock 
should  speak  with  the  voice  of  all  those  years 
agone  ;  it  was  a  kind  of  loyalty  which  appealed 
to  the  soul  like  a  piercing  miracle.  Then  she 
ran  through  to  the  sitting-room,  and  started 
the  old  eight-day  in  the  corner ;  and  the  house 
breathed  and  was  alive  again.  She  threw  open 


156  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  windows,  all  save  those  on  the  Dilloway 
side  (lest  kindly  neighbors  should  discover  she 
was  at  home),  and  the  soft  rose-scented  air 
flooded  the  rooms  like  an  invisible  presence, 
and  bore  out  the  smell  of  age  upon  gracious 
wings.  Now,  Dilly  worked  fast  and  steadily, 
lest  some  human  thing  should  come  upon  her. 
She  tied  up  bedclothes,  and  opened  long-closed 
cupboards.  She  made  careful  piles  of  clothing 
from  the  attic ;  and  finally,  her  mind  a  little 
tired,  she  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  began 
looking  over  papers  and  daguerreotypes  from 
her  father's  desk.  Just  as  she  had  lost  herself 
in  the  ancient  history  of  which  they  were  the 
signs,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  back  door. 
So  assured  had  become  her  idea  of  a  continued 
housekeeping,  that  the  summons  did  not  seem 
in  the  least  strange.  The  house  lived  again  ; 
it  had  thrown  open  its  arms  to  human  kind. 

"  Come  in  ! "  she  called  ;  and  a  light  step 
sounded  in  the  kitchen  and  crossed  the  sill. 
It  was  a  man,  dark-eyed  and  very  handsome. 
"  Oh  !  "  murmured  Dilly,  catching  her  breath 
and  holding  both  hands  clasped  upon  the 
papers  in  her  lap.  "  Jethro  !  " 

The  stranger  was  much  moved,  and  his 
black  eyes  deepened.  He  looked  at  her  kindly, 
perhaps  lovingly,  too.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  at  last. 
"  So  you  'd  know  me  ?  " 

Dilly  got  lightly  up,  and  the  papers  fell 
about  her  in  a  shower ;  yet  she  made  no  motion 


A   LAST   ASSEMBLING  157 

toward  him.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said  softly,  "I 
should  know  you.  You  ain't  changed  at  all." 

That  was  not  true.  He  looked  ten  years 
older  than  his  real  age ;  yet  time  had  only 
dowered  him  with  a  finer  grace  and  charm. 
All  the  lines  in  his  face  were  those  of  gentle 
ness  and  truth.  His  mouth  had  the  old  deli 
cate  curves.  One  meeting  him  that  day  might 
have  said,  with  a  throb  of  involuntary  homage, 
"  How  beautiful  he  must  have  been  when  he 
was  young  ! "  But  to  Dilly  he  bore  even  a 
more  subtile  distinction  than  in  that  far-away 
time ;  he  had  ripened  into  something  harmoniz 
ing  with  her  own  years.  He  came  forward  a 
little,  and  held  out  both  hands  ;  but  Dilly  did 
not  take  them,  and  he  dropped  the  left  one. 
Then  she  laid  her  fingers  lightly  in  his,  and 
they  greeted  each  other  like  old  acquaintances. 
A  flush  rose  in  her  smooth  brown  cheek. 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  that  startled  ques 
tioning  which  is  of  the  woods.  He  looked  at 
her  the  more  intently,  and  his  breath  quick 
ened.  She  had  none  of  the  blossomy  charm  of 
more  robust  womanhood ;  but  he  recognized 
the  old  gypsy  element  which  had  once  be 
witched  him,  and  felt  he  loved  her  still. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  a  little, 
"are  you  glad  to  see  me  ? " 

Dilly  moved  back,  and  sat  down  in  her  mo 
ther's  little  sewing-chair  by  the  desk.  "I 
don't  know  as  I  can  tell,"  she  answered.  "  This 
is  a  strange  day." 


I58  TIVERTON   TALES 

Jethro  nodded.  "  I  meant  to  surprise  you,"' 
he  said.  "  So  I  never  wrote  I  was  coming  on 
so  soon.  I  was  real  disappointed  to  find  your 
house  shut  up ;  but  the  neighbors  told  me 
where  you  'd  gone,  and  what  you  'd  gone  for. 
Then  I  walked  over  here." 

Dilly's  face  brightened  all  over  with  a  re 
sponsive  smile.  "  Did  you  come  through  the 
woods  ?  "  she  asked.  "  What  made  you  ?  " 

"Why,  I  knew  you'd  go  that  way,"  he  an 
swered.  "  I  thought  you  'd  get  wool-gathering 
over  some  weed  or  another,  and  maybe  I  'd 
overtake  you." 

They  both  laughed,  and  the  ice  was  broken. 
Dilly  got  briskly  up  and  gathered  a  drawer-full 
of  papers  into  her  apron. 

"  I  can't  stop  workin',"  she  said.  "  I  want 
to  fix  it  so  's  not  to  stay  here  more  'n  one  night. 
Now  you  talk !  I  know  what  these  are.  I 
can  run  'em  over  an'  listen  too." 

"  I  think  't  was  real  good  of  you  to  turn  in 
the  place  to  Tom's  folks,"  said  Jethro,  also  seat 
ing  himself,  and,  as  Dilly  saw  with  a  start,  as  if 
it  were  an  omen,  in  her  father's  great  chair. 
"  Not  that  you  '11  ever  need  it,  Dilly.  You 
won't  want  for  a  thing.  I  've  done  real  well." 

Dilly's  long  fingers  assorted  papers  and  laid 
them  at  either  side,  with  a  neat  precision. 

I  She  looked  up  at  him  then,  and  her  eyes  had 
again  the  quick,  inquiring  glance  of  some  wild 
creature  in  a  situation  foreign  to  its  habits. 


A   LAST  ASSEMBLING  159 

"Well,"  she  said,  "  well !  I  guess  I  don't  resk 
anything.  An'  if  I  did  —  why,  I  'd  resk  it !  " 

Jethro  bent  forward  a  little.  He  was  smil 
ing,  and  Dilly  met  the  glance,  half  fascinated. 
She  wondered  that  she  could  forget  his  smile  ; 
and  yet  she  had  forgotten  it.  Like  running 
water,  it  was  never  twice  the  same. 

"  Dilly,"  said  he,  much  moved,  "you  '11  have 
a  good  time  from  this  out,  if  ever  a  woman  did. 
You  '11  keep  house  in  a  brick  block,  where  the 
cars  run  by  your  door,  and  you  can  hire  two 
girls." 

"  Oh,  my  !  "  breathed  Dilly.  A  quick  look 
of  trouble  darkened  her  face,  as  a  shadow 
sweeps  across  the  field. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  Jethro,  in  some  alarm. 
"  Don't  you  like  what  I  said  ?  " 

Dilly  smiled,  though  her  eyes  were  still 
apprehensive. 

"  It  ain't  that,"  she  answered  slowly,  striving 
in  her  turn  to  be  kind.  "  Only  I  guess  I  never 
happened  to  think  before  just  how  't  would  be. 
I  never  spec'lated  much  on  keepin'  house." 

"But  somebody 'd  have  to  keep  it,"  said 
Jethro  good-naturedly,  smiling  on  her.  "We 
can  get  good  help.  You  '11  like  to  have  a  real 
home  table,  and  you  can  invite  company  every 
day,  if  you  say  so.  I  never  was  close,  Dilly,  — 
you  know  that.  I  sha'n't  make  you  account 
for  things." 

Dilly  got  up,  and,  still  holding  her  papers 


160  TIVERTON   TALES 

in  her  apron,  walked  swiftly  to  the  window. 
There  she  stood,  a  moment,  looking  out  into 
the  orchard,  where  the  grass  lay  tangled  under 
the  neglected,  happy  trees.  Her  eyes  traveled 
mechanically  from  one  to  another.  She  knew 
them  all.  That  was  the  "  sopsyvine,"  its  red 
fruitage  fast  coming  on  ;  there  was  the  Porter 
she  had  seen  her  father  graft ;  and  down  in 
the  corner  grew  the  August  sweet.  Life  out 
there  looked  so  still  and  sane  and  homely. 
She  knew  no  city  streets,  —  yet  the  thought 
of  them  sounded  like  a  pursuit.  She  turned 
about,  and  came  back  to  her  chair. 

"  I  guess  I  never  dreamt  how  you  lived, 
Jethro,"  she  said  gently.  "But  it  don't  make 
no  matter.  You  're  contented  with  it." 

"  I  ain't  a  rich  man,"  said  Jethro,  with  some 
quiet  pride  ;  "  but  I  've  got  enough.  Yes,  I 
like  my  business ;  and  city  life  suits  me. 
You  '11  fall  in  with  it,  too." 

Then  silence  settled  between  them ;  but 
that  never  troubled  Dilly.  She  was  used  to 
long  musings  on  her  walks  to  and  from  her 
patients,  and  in  her  watching  beside  their  beds. 
Conversation  seemed  to  her  a  very  spurious 
thing  when  there  is  nothing  to  say. 

"  What  you  thinking  about  ?  "  he  asked  sud 
denly. 

Dilly  looked  up  at  him  with  her  bright,  truth- 
telling  glance.  "  I  was  thinkin',"  she  answered, 
with  a  clarity  never  ruthless,  because  it  was 


A   LAST  ASSEMBLING  161 

so  sweet,  —  "I  was  thinkin'  you  make  me 
homesick,  somehow  or  another." 

Jethro  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  and  then, 
as  she  smiled  at  him,  he  smiled  also. 

"  I  don't  believe  it 's  me,"  he  said,  confi 
dently.  "  It  's  because  you  're  going  over 
things  here.  It 's  the  old  house." 

"  Maybe,"  said  Dilly,  nodding  and  tying  her 
last  bundle  of  papers.  "  But  I  don't  know.  I 
never  had  quite  such  feelin's  before.  It 's  the 
nearest  to  bein'  afraid  of  anything  I  've  come 
acrost.  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  run  out  into 
the  lot  an'  take  my  bearin's." 

Jethro  got  up,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  walked  about  the  room.  He  was  very 
gentle,  but  he  did  at  heart  cherish  the  mascu 
line  theory  that  the  unusual  in  woman  is  never 
to  be  judged  by  rules. 

"  But  it  is  a  queer  kind  of  a  day,"  owned 
Dilly,  pushing  in  the  last  drawer.  "Why, 
Jethro  ! "  She  faced  him,  and  her  voice  broke 
in  excitement.  "  You  don't  know,  I  ain't 
begun  to  tell  you,  how  queer  it  seems  to  me. 
Why,  I  've  dreaded  this  day  for  weeks !  but 
when  it  come  nigh,  it  begun  to  seem  to  me 
like  a  joyful  thing.  I  felt  as  if  they  all  knew 
of  it :  them  that  was  gone.  It  seemed  as  if 
they  stood  'round  me,  ready  to  uphold  me  in 
what  I  was  doin'.  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if 
they  were  all  here  now.  I  don't  feel  a  mite 
alone." 


162  TIVERTON   TALES 

Her  voice  shook  with  excitement ;  her  eyes 
were  big  and  black.  Jethro  came  up  to  her, 
and  laid  a  kindly  hand  on  her  shoulder.  It 
was  a  fine  hand,  long  and  shapely,  and  Dilly, 
looking  down  at  it,  remembered,  with  a  strange 
regretfulness,  how  she  had  once  loved  its  lines. 

"There,  poor  girl !  "  he  said,  "you're  tired 
thinking  about  it.  No  wonder  you  've  got 
fancies.  I  guess  the  ghosts  won't  trouble  us. 
There  's  nothing  here  worse  than  ourselves." 
And  again,  in  spite  of  the  Joyces,  Dilly  felt 
homesick  and  alone. 

There  came  a  soft  thudding  sound  upon  the 
kitchen  floor,  and  she  turned,  alert,  to  listen. 
This  was  Mrs.  Eli  Pike  in  her  carpet  slippers  ; 
she  had  stood  so  much  over  soap-making  that 
week  that  her  feet  had  taken  to  swelling.  She 
was  no  older  than  Dilly,  but  she  had  seemed 
matronly  in  her  teens.  She  looked  very  large, 
as  she  padded  forward  through  the  doorway, 
and  her  pink  face  and  double  chin  seemed  to 
exude  kindliness  as  she  came. 

"  There,  Dilly  Joyce  !  if  this  ain't  jest  like 
you  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Creep  in  here  an'  not 
let  anybody  know  !  Why,  Jethro,  that  you  ? 
Recognize  you  !  Well,  I  guess  I  should  !  " 

She  included  them  both  in  a  neighborly 
glance,  and  Dilly  was  very  grateful.  Yet  it 
seemed  to  her  that  now,  at  last,  she  might 
break  down  and  cry.  The  tone  of  olden  friend 
liness  was  hard  to  bear,  when  no  other  voices 


A   LAST  ASSEMBLING  163 

answered.  She  could  endure  the  silent  house, 
but  not  the  intercourse  of  a  life  so  sadly 
changed. 

"  There  ! "  continued  Mrs.  Pike,  with  a  nod, 
"  I  guess  I  know  !  You  're  tired  to  pieces 
with  this  pickin'  and  sortin',  an'  you  're  comin' 
over  to  dinner,  both  on  ye.  Eli 's  dressed  a 
hin.  I  had  to  wring  her  neck.  He  would  n't 
ha'  done  it ;  you  know  that,  Dilly !  An'  I  Ve 
been  beatin'  up  eggs.  Now  don't  you  say  one 
word.  You  be  there  by  twelve.  Jethro,  you 
got  a  watch?  You  see 't  she  starts,  now!" 
And  Mrs.  Pike  marched  away  victorious,  her 
apron  over  her  head,  and  waving  one  hand  be 
fore  her  as  she  went.  She  had  once  been 
stung  by  bees,  on  just  such  a  morning  as  this, 
and  she  had  a  set  theory  that  they  infested  all 
strange  dooryards. 

Dilly  felt  as  if  even  the  Joyces  could  not 
save  her  day  in  its  solemn  significance  unless, 
indeed,  they  should  appear  in  their  proper  per 
sons.  She  thought  of  her  bread  and  butter 
and  boiled  eggs,  lying  in  her  little  bundle,  and 
the  simple  meal  seemed  as  unattainable  as  if 
it  were  some  banquet  dreamed  of  in  delirium. 
It  was  of  one  piece  with  cars  going  by  the 
house,  and  two  maid-servants  to  correct.  To 
Dilly,  a  car  meant  a  shrieking  monster  pro 
pelled  by  steam  :  yet  not  even  that  drove  her 
to  such  insanity  of  revulsion  as  the  two  ser 
vants.  They  alone  made  her  coming  life  seem 


164  TIVERTON   TALES 

like  one  eternal  school,  with  the  committee 
ever  on  the  platform,  and  no  recess.  But  she 
worked  very  meekly  and  soberly,  and  Jethro 
took  off  his  coat  and  helped  her ;  then,  just 
before  twelve,  they  washed  their  hands  and 
went  across  the  orchard  to  Mrs.  Pike's, 

The  rest  of  the  day  seemed  to  Dilly  like 
a  confused  though  not  an  unfamiliar  dream. 
She  knew  that  the  dinner  was  very  good,  and 
that  it  choked  her,  so  that  Mrs.  Pike,  alert  in 
her  first  pride  of  housekeeping,  was  quite  cor 
dially  harsh  with  her  for  not  eating  more  ;  and 
that  Jethro  talked  about  Chicago ;  and  Eli 
Pike,  older  than  his  wife  and  graver,  said  "  Do 
tell !  "  now  and  again,  and  seemed  to  picture 
in  his  mind  the  outlines  of  city  living.  She 
escaped  from  the  table  as  soon  as  possible, 
under  pretext  of  the  work  to  be  done,  and 
slipped  back  to  the  empty  house  ;  and  there 
Jethro  found  her,  and  began  helping  her  again. 

The  still  afternoon  settled  down  in  its 
grooves  of  beauty,  and  its  very  loveliness  gave 
Dilly  a  pain  at  the  heart.  She  remembered 
that  this  was  the  hour  when  her  mother  used 
to  yawn  over  her  long  seam,  or  her  knitting, 
and  fall  asleep  by  the  window,  while  the  bees 
droned  outside  in  the  jessamine,  and  a  hum 
ming-bird —  there  had  always  been  one,  year 
after  year,  and  Dilly  could  never  get  over  the 
impression  that  it  was  the  same  bird  —  hovered 
on  his  invisible  perch  and  thrilled  his  wings 


A   LAST   ASSEMBLING  165 

divinely.  Then  the  day  slipped  over  an  un 
seen  height,  and  fell  into  a  sheltered  calm. 
The  work  was  not  done,  and  they  had  to  go 
over  to  Mrs.  Pike's  again  to  supper,  and  to 
spend  the  night.  Dilly  longed  to  stretch  her 
self  on  the  old  kitchen  lounge  in  her  own 
home  ;  but  Mrs.  Pike  told  her  plainly  that  she 
was  crazy,  and  Jethro,  with  a  kindly  authority, 
bade  her  yield.  And  because  words  were  like 
weapons  that  returned  upon  her  to  hurt  her 
anew,  she  did  yield,  and  talked  patiently  to 
one  and  another  neighbor  as  they  came  in 
to  see  Jethro,  and  to  inquire  when  he  meant 
to  be  married. 

"  Soon,"  said  Jethro,  with  assurance.  "  As 
soon  as  Dilly  makes  up  her  mind." 

All  that  evening,  Eli  Pike  sat  on  the  steps, 
where  he  could  hear  the  talk  in  the  sitting- 
room  without  losing  the  whippoorwnTs  song 
from  the  Joyce  orchard,  and  Dilly  longed  to 
slip  out  and  sit  quietly  beside  him.  He  would 
know.  But  she  could  only  be  civil  and  grate 
ful,  and  when  half  past  eight  came,  take  her 
lamp  and  go  up  to  bed.  Jethro  was  given  the 
best  chamber,  because  he  had  succeeded  and 
came  from  Chicago  ;  but  Dilly  had  a  little 
room  that  looked  straight  out  across  the  tree- 
tops  down  to  her  own  home. 

At  first,  after  closing  the  door  behind  her, 
she  felt  only  the  great  blessedness  of  being 
alone.  She  put  out  the  light  and  threw  her- 


i66  TIVERTON   TALES 

self,  as  she  was,  face  downwards  on  the  bed. 
There  she  lay  for  long  moments,  suffering  ; 
and  this  was  one  of  the  few  times  in  her  life 
when  she  was  forced  to  feel  that  human  pain 
which  is  like  a  stab  in  the  heart.  For  she  was 
one  of  those  wise  creatures  who  give  them 
selves  long  spaces  of  silence,  and  so  heal  them 
quickly  of  their  wounds,  like  the  sage  little 
animals  that  slip  away  from  combat,  to  cure 
their  hurt  with  leaves.  Presently,  a  great 
sense  of  rest  enfolded  her,  a  rest  ineffably 
precious  because  it  was  so  soon  to  be  over.  It 
was  like  great  riches  lent  only  for  a  time. 
Outside  this  familiar  quiet  was  the  world, 
thrilled  by  a  terrifying  life  pressing  upon  her 
and  calling.  She  longed  to  put  her  hands  be 
fore  her  eyes,  and  shut  out  the  possibility  of 
meeting  its  garish  glory ;  she  did  cover  her 
ears,  lest  its  cry  should  pierce  them  and  she 
could  not  resist.  And  so  she  lay  there  shiver- 
ing,  until  a  strange  inviting  that  was  peace 
and  not  commotion  seemed  to  approach  her 
from  another  side,  and  her  inner  self  became 
conscious  of  unheard  voices.  They  were  not 
clamorous,  but  sweet,  and  they  drowned  her 
will,  and  drew  her  to  themselves.  She  got 
softly  up,  and,  going  to  the  darkened  window, 
looked  out  across  the  orchard.  There,  in  the 
greenness,  lay  the  old  house.  It  called  on  her 
to  come.  It  seemed  to  Dilly  that  she  could 
not  make  haste  enough  to  be  there.  She 


A   LAST  ASSEMBLING  167 

slipped  softly  down  the  narrow  stairway,  and 
across  the  kitchen,  where  the  shadows  of  the 
moonlit  windows  lay  upon  the  floor.  A  great 
excitement  thrilled  her  blood ;  and  though 
quite  safe  from  discovery,  she  was  not  wholly 
at  ease  until  she  had  entered  the  orchard  path, 
and  knew  her  feet  were  wet  with  dew,  and 
heard  the  whippoorwill,  so  near  now  that  she 
might  have  startled  him  from  his  neighboring 
tree.  No  other  bird  note  could  have  fitted  her 
mood  so  well.  The  wild  melancholy  of  his 
tone,  his  home  in  the  night,  and  the  omens 
blended  with  his  song  seemed  to  remove  him 
from  the  world  as  she  herself  was  removed  ; 
and  she  hastened  on  with  a  fine  exaltation, 
fitted  her  key  again  in  the  lock,  and  shut  the 
door  behind  her. 

As  soon  as  Dilly  had  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  where  the  old  desk  stood  in  its  place, 
and  the  clock  was  ticking,  she  felt  as  if  all  her 
confusion  and  trouble  were  over.  She  smiled 
to  herself  in  the  darkness.  She  had  come 
home,  and  it  was  very  good.  They  had  begun 
with  the  attic,  in  their  rearranging,  and  this 
room  remained  unchanged.  It  had  been  her 
wish  to  keep  it,  in  its  sweet  familiarity,  un 
altered  till  the  last.  She  drew  forward  her 
father's  chair,  and  sat  down  in  it,  with  luxu 
rious  abandonment,  to  rest.  Her  mother's 
little  cricket  was  by  her  side,  and  she  put  her 
feet  on  it  and  exhaled  a  long  sigh  of  content 


1 68  TIVERTON   TALES 

Her  eyes  rested  on  the  dark  cavern  which  was 
the  fireplace  ;  and  there  fell  upon  her  a  sweet 
sense  of  completed  bliss,  as  if  it  were  alight 
and  she  could  watch  the  dancing  flames.  And 
suddenly  Dilly  was  aware  that  the  Joyces  were 
all  about  her. 

She  had  been  sure,  in  her  coming  through 
the  woods,  that  they  knew  and  cared ;  now 
she  was  certain  that,  in  some  fashion,  they 
recognized  their  bondage  and  loyalty  to  the 
place,  as  she  recognized  her  own,  and  that  they 
upheld  her  to  her  task.  She  thought  them 
over,  as  she  sat  there,  and  saw  their  souls  more 
keenly  than  if  she  had  met  them,  men  and 
women,  face  to  face.  There  was  the  shoe 
maker  among  them,  who,  generations  back, 
was  sitting  on  his  bench  when  news  came  of 
the  battle  of  Lexington,  and  who  threw  down 
hammer  and  last,  and  ran  wildly  out  into  the 
woods,  where  he  stayed  three  days  and  nights, 
calling  with  a  loud  voice  upon  Almighty  God 
to  save  him  from  ill-doing.  Then  he  had 
drowned  himself  in  a  little  brook  too  shallow 
for  the  death  of  any  but  a  desperate  man.  He 
had  been  the  disgrace  of  the  Joyces;  they 
dared  not  think  of  him,  and  they  know,  even  to 
this  day,  that  he  is  remembered  among  their 
townsmen  as  the  Joyce  who  was  a  coward,  and 
killed  himself  rather  than  go  to  war.  But  here 
he  stood  —  was  it  the  man,  or  some  secret  in 
telligence  of  him  ?  —  and  Dilly,  out  of  all  his 


A   LAST  ASSEMBLING  169 

race,  was  the  one  to  comprehend  him.  She 
saw,  with  a  thrill  of  passionate  sympathy,  how 
he  had  believed  with  all  his  soul  in  the  wicked 
ness  of  war,  and  how  the  wound  to  his  country 
so  roused  in  him  the  desire  of  blood  that  he 
fled  away  and  prayed  his  God  to  save  him  from 
mortal  guilt,  —  and  how,  finding  that  he  saw 
with  an  overwhelming  delight  the  red  of  antici 
pated  slaughter,  and  knew  his  traitorous  feet 
were  bearing  him  to  the  ranks,  he  chose  the 
death  of  the  body  rather  than  sin  against  the 
soul.  And  Dilly  was  glad ;  the  blood  in  her 
own  veins  ran  purer  for  his  sake. 

There  was  old  Delilah  Joyce,  who  went  into 
a  decline  for  love,  and  wasted  quite  away.  She 
had  been  one  of  those  tragic  fugitives  on  the 
island  of  being,  driven  out  into  the  storm  of 
public  sympathy  to  be  beaten  and  undone  ;  for 
she  was  left  on  her  wedding  day  by  her  lover, 
who  vowed  he  loved  her  no  more.  But  now 
Dilly  saw  her  without  the  pathetic  bravery  of 
her  silken  gown  which  was  never  worn,  and  knew 
her  for  a  woman  serene  and  glad.  That  very 
day  she  had  unfolded  the  gown  in  the  attic, 
where  it  had  lain,  year  upon  year,  wrapped 
about  by  the  poignant  sympathy  of  her  kin,  a 
perpetual  reminder  of  the  hurts  and  faithless 
ness  of  life.  It  had  become  a  relic,  set  aside 
from  modern  use.  She  felt  now  as  if  she  could 
even  wear  it  herself,  though  silk  was  not  for 
her,  or  deck  some  little  child  in  its  shot  and 


170  TIVERTON   TALES 

shimmering  gayety.  For  it  came  to  her,  with 
a  glad  rush  of  acquiescent  joy,  that  all  his  life, 
the  man,  though  blinded  by  illusion,  had  been 
true  to  her  whom  he  had  left ;  and  that,  in 
stead  of  being  poor,  she  was  very  rich.  It  was 
from  that  moment  that  Dilly  began  to  under 
stand  that  the  soul  does  not  altogether  weld  its 
own  bonds,  but  that  they  lie  in  the  secret  core 
of  things,  as  the  planet  rushes  on  its  appointed 
way. 

There  was  Annette  Joyce,  who  married  a 
Stackpole,  and,  to  the  disgust  of  her  kin,  clung 
to  him  through  one  debauch  after  another, 
until  the  world  found  out  that  Annette 
"couldn't  have  much  sense  of  decency  herself, 
or  she  would  n't  put  up  with  such  things."  But 
on  this  one  night  Dilly  found  out  that  Annette's 
life  had  been  a  continual  laying  hold  of  Eternal 
Being,  not  for  herself,  but  for  the  creature  she 
loved;  that  she  had  shown  the  insolence  and 
audacity  of  a  thousand  spirits  in  one,  besieging 
high  heaven  and  crying  in  the  ear  of  God  :  "  I 
demand  of  Thee  this  soul  that  Thou  hast  made." 
And  somehow  Dilly  knew  now  that  she  was  of 
those  who  overcome. 

So  the  line  stretched  on,  until  she  was  aware 
of  souls  of  which  she  had  never  heard  ;  and 
she  knew  that,  faulty  as  their  deeds  might  be, 
they  had  striven,  and  the  strife  was  not  in  vain. 
/She  felt  herself  to  be  one  drop  in  a  mighty 
river,  flowing  into  the  water  whicjh  is  the  sum 


A   LAST   ASSEMBLING  171 

of  life ;  and  she  was  content  to  be  absorbed  in 
that  great  stream.  There  was  human  comfort 
in  the  moment,  too ;  for  all  about  her  were 
those  whom  she  had  seen  with  her  bodily  eyes, 
and  their  presence  brought  an  infinite  cheer 
and  rest.  Dilly  felt  the  safety  of  the  universe  ; 
she  smiled  lovingly  over  the  preciousness  of  all 
its  homely  ways.  She  thought  of  the  twilights 
when  she  had  sat  on  the  doorstone,  eating 
huckleberries  and  milk,  and  seeing  the  sun  drop 
down  the  west ;  she  remembered  one  night 
when  her  little  cat  came  home,  after  it  had 
been  lost,  and  felt  the  warm  touch  of  its  fur 
against  her  hand.  She  saw  how  the  great  chain 
of  things  is  held  by  such  slender  links,  and  how 
there  is  nothing  that  is  not  most  sacred  and 
most  good.  The  hum  of  summer  life  outside 
the  window  seemed  to  her  the  life  in  her  own 
veins,  and  she  knew  that  nothing  dwells  apart 
from  anything  else,  and  that,  whether  we  wot 
of  it  or  not,  we  are  of  one  blood. 

The  night  went  on  to  that  solemn  hush  that 
comes  before  the  dawn.  Dilly  felt  the  presence 
of  the  day,  and  what  it  would  demand  of  her  ; 
but  now  she  did  not  fear.  For  Jethro,  too, 
had  been  with  her  ;  and  at  last  she  understood 
his  power  over  her  and  could  lay  it  away  like 
a  jewel  in  a  case,  a  precious  thing,  and  yet  not 
to  be  worn.  She  saw  him,  also,  in  his  stream 
of  being,  as  she  was  swept  along  through  hers, 
and  knew  how  that  old  race  had  given  him  a 


173  TIVERTON   TALES 

beauty  which  was  not  his,  but  theirs,  —  and 

how,  in  the  melancholy  of  his  eyes,  she  loved 

a  soul  long  passed,  and  in  the  wonder  of  his 

hand  the  tender  lines  of  other  hands,  waving 

I  to  fiery  action.     He  was  an  inheritor;  and  she 

/  ]iad  loved,  not  him,  but  his  inheritance. 

Now  it  was  the  later  dusk  of  night,  and  the 
cocks  crowed  loudly  in  a  clear  diminuendo, 
dying  far  away.  Dilly  pressed  her  hands  upon 
her  eyes,  and  came  awake  to  the  outer  world. 
She  looked  about  the  room  with  a  warm  smile, 
and  reviewed,  in  feeling,  her  happy  night.  It 
was  no  longer  hard  to  dismantle  the  place. 
The  room,  the  house,  the  race  were  hers  for 
ever  ;  she  had  learned  the  abidingness  of  what 
is  real.  When  she  closed  the  door  behind  her, 
she  touched  the  casing  as  if  she  loved  it,  and, 
crossing  the  orchard,  she  felt  as  if  all  the  trees 
could  say :  "  We  know,  you  and  we  !  " 

As  she  entered  the  Pike  farmyard,  Eli  was 
just  going  to  milking,  with  clusters  of  shining 
pails. 

"  You  're  up  early,"  said  he.  "  Well,  there  's 
nothin'  like  the  mornin' ! " 

"  No,"  answered  Dilly,  smiling  at  him  with  the 
radiance  of  one  who  carries  good  news,  "  except 
night-time  !  There  's  a  good  deal  in  that !  " 
And  while  Eli  went  gravely  on,  pondering  ac 
cording  to  his  wont,  she  ran  up  to  smooth  her 
tumbled  bed. 

After  breakfast,  while  Mrs.  Pike  was  carrying 


A   LAST  ASSEMBLING  173 

away  the  dishes,  Dilly  called  Jethro  softly  to 
one  side. 

"  You  come  out  in  the  orchard.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Her  voice  thrilled  with  something  like  the 
gladness  of  confidence,  and  Jethro's  own  face 
brightened.  Dilly  read  that  vivid  anticipation, 
and  caught  her  breath.  Though  she  knew  it 
now,  the  old  charm  would  never  be  quite  gone. 
She  took  his  hand  and  drew  him  forward.  She 
seemed  like  a  child,  unaffected  and  not  afraid. 
Out  in  the  path,  under  the  oldest  tree  of  all, 
she  dropped  his  hand  and  faced  him. 

"Jethro,"  she  said,  "we  can't  do  it.  We 
can't  get  married." 

He  looked  at  her  amazed.  She  seemed  to  be 
telling  good  news  instead  of  bad.  She  gazed 
up  at  him  smilingly.  He  could  not  understand. 

"  Don't  you  care  about  me  ? "  he  asked  at 
length,  haltingly ;  and  again  Dilly  smiled  at  him 
in  the  same  warm  confidence. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  eagerly.  "  I  do  care, 
ever  and  ever  so  much.  But  it 's  your  folks 
I  care  about.  It  ain't  you.  I  Ve  found  it  all 
out,  Jethro.  Things  don't  al'ays  belong  to  us. 
Sometimes  they  belong  to  them  that  have  gone 
before ;  an'  half  the  time  we  don't  know  it." 

Jethro  laid  a  gentle  hand  upon  her  arm. 
"  You  're  all  tired  out,"  he  said  soothingly. 
"  Now  you  give  up  picking  over  things,  and  let 
me  hire  somebody.  I  '11  be  glad  to." 


174  TIVERTON   TALES 

But  Dilly  withdrew  a  little  from  his  touch. 
"  You  're  real  good,  Jethro,"  she  answered 
steadily.  She  had  put  aside  her  exaltation,  and 
was  her  old  self,  full  of  common-  mse  and 
kindly  strength.  "  But  I  don't  feel  tired,  an'  I 
ain't  a  mite  crazed.  All  you  can  do  is  to  ride 
over  to  town  with  Eli  —  he  's  goin'  after  he 
feeds  the  pigs  —  an'  take  the  cars  from  there. 
It 's  all  over,  Jethro.  It  is,  truly.  I  ain't  so 
sorry  a.s  I  might  be ;  for  it 's  borne  in  on  me 
you  won't  care  this  way  long.  An'  you  need  n't, 
dear  ;  for  nothin'  between  us  is  changed  a  mite. 
The  only  trouble  is,  it  ain't  the  kind  of  thing 
we  thought." 

She  looked  in  his  eyes  with  a  long,  bright 
farewell  glance,  and  turned  away.  She  had  left 
behind  her  something  which  was  very  fine  and 
beautiful ;  but  she  could  not  mourn.  And  all 
that  morning,  about  the  house,  she  sang  little 
snatches  of  song,  and  was  content.  The  Joyces 
had  done  their  work,  and  she  was  doing  hers. 


THE  WAY   OF   PEACE 

IT  was  two  weeks  after  her  mother's  funeral 
when  Lucy  Ann  Cummings  sat  down  and  con 
sidered.  The  web  of  a  lifelong  service  and 
devotion  still  clung  about  her,  but  she  was 
bereft  of  the  creature  for  whom  it  had  been 
spun.  Now  she  was  quite  alone,  save  for  her 
two  brothers  and  the  cousins  who  lived  in  other 
townships,  and  they  all  had  homes  of  their 
own.  Lucy  Ann  sat  still,  and  thought  about 
her  life.  Brother  Ezra  and  brother  John  would 
be  good  to  her.  They  always  had  been.  Their 
solicitude  redoubled  with  her  need,  and  they 
had  even  insisted  on  leaving  Annabel,  John's 
daughter,  to  keep  her  company  after,  the  fu 
neral.  Lucy  Ann  thought  longingly  of  the 
healing  which  lay  in  the  very  loneliness  of  her 
little  house  ;  but  she  yielded,  with  a  patient 
sigh.  John  and  Ezra  were  men-folks,  and 
doubtless  they  knew  best. 

A  little  more  than  a  week  had  gone  when 
school  "  took  up,"  rather  earlier  than  had  been 
intended,  and  Annabel  went  away  in  haste,  to 
teach.  Then  Lucy  Ann  drew  her  first  long 
breath.  She  had  resisted  many  a  kindly  office 
from  her  niece,  with  the  crafty  innocence  of 


176  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  gentle  who  can  only  parry  and  never  thrust. 
When  Annabel  wanted  to  help  in  packing  away 
grandma's  things,  aunt  Lucy  agreed,  half-heart 
edly,  and  then  deferred  the  task  from  day  to 
day.  In  reality,  Lucy  Ann  never  meant  to 
pack  them  away  at  all.  She  could  not  imagine 
her  home  without  them  ;  but  that,  Annabel 
would  not  understand,  and  her  aunt  pushed 
aside  the  moment,  reasoning  that  something 
is  pretty  sure  to  happen  if  you  put  things  off 
long  enough.  And  something  did  ;  Annabel 
went  away.  It  was  then  that  Lucy  Ann  took 
a  brief  draught  of  the  cup  of  peace. 

Long  before  her  mother's  death,  when  they 
both  knew  how  inevitably  it  was  coming,  Lucy 
Ann  had,  one  day,  a  little  shock  of  surprise. 
She  was  standing  before  the  glass,  coiling  her 
crisp  gray  hair,  and  thinking  over  and  over  the 
words  the  doctor  had  used,  the  night  before, 
when  he  told  her  how  near  the  end  might 
be.  Her  delicate  face  fell  into  deeper  lines. 
Her  mouth  dropped  a  little  at  the  corners  ; 
her  faded  brown  eyes  were  hot  with  tears,  and 
stopping  to  wipe  them,  she  caught  sight  of  her 
self  in  the  glass. 

"Why,"  she  said  aloud,  "I  look  jest  like 
mother ! " 

And  so  she  did,  save  that  it  was  the  mother 
of  five  years  ago,  before  disease  had  corroded 
the  dear  face,  and  patience  wrought  its  tracery 
there. 


THE  WAY  OF   PEACE  177 

"Well,"  she  continued,  smiling  a  little  at  the 
poverty  of  her  state,  "  I  shall  be  a  real  comfort 
to  me  when  mother  's  gone !  " 

Now  that  her  moment  of  solitude  had  struck, 
grief  came  also.  It  glided  in,  and  sat  down  by 
her,  to  go  forth  no  more,  save  perhaps  under 
its  other  guise  of  a  patient  hope.  She  rocked 
back  and  forth  in  her  chair,  and  moaned  a 
little  to  herself. 

"  Oh,  I  never  can  bear  it ! "  she  said  pathet 
ically,  under  her  breath.  "  I  never  can  bear 
it  in  the  world  !  " 

The  tokens  of  illness  were  all  put  away. 
Her  mother's  bedroom  lay  cold  in  an  unsmil 
ing  order.  The  ticking  of  the  clock  empha 
sized  the  inexorable  silence  of  the  house. 
Once  Lucy  Ann  thought  she  heard  a  little 
rustle  and  stir.  It  seemed  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  coming  from  the  bedroom, 
where  one  movement  of  the  clothes  had  always 
been  enough  to  summon  her  with  flying  feet. 
She  caught  her  breath,  and  held  it,  to  listen. 
She  was  ready,  undisturbed,  for  any  sign.  But 
a  great  fly  buzzed  drowsily  on  the  pane,  and  the 
fire  crackled  with  accentuated  life.  She  was 
quite  alone.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart,  in 
that  gesture  of  grief  which  is  so  entirely  natural 
when  we  feel  the  stab  of  destiny ;  and  then  she 
went  wanly  into  the  sitting-room,  looking  about 
her  for  some  pretense  of  duty  to  solace  her 
poor  mind.  There  again  she  caught  sight  of 
herself  in  the  glass. 


178  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Oh,  my  ! "  breathed  Lucy  Ann.  Low  as 
they  were,  the  words  held  a  fullness  of  joy. 

Her  face  had  been  aging  through  these  days 
of  grief  ;  it  had  grown  more  and  more  like  her 
mother's.  She  felt  as  if  a  hand  had  been 
stretched  out  to  her,  holding  a  gift,  and  at  that 
moment  something  told  her  how  to  make  the 
gift  enduring.  Running  over  to  the  little  table 
where  her  mother's  work-basket  stood,  as  it  had 
been,  undisturbed,  she  took  out  a  pair  of  scis 
sors,  and  went  back  to  the  glass.  There  she 
let  down  her  thick  gray  hair,  parted  it  carefully 
on  the  sides,  and  cut  off  lock  after  lock  about 
her  face.  She  looked  a  caricature  of  her  sober 
self.  But  she  was  well  used  to  curling  hair 
like  this,  drawing  its  crisp  silver  into  shining 
rings  ;  and  she  stood  patiently  before  the  glass 
and  coaxed  her  own  locks  into  just  such  fashion 
as  had  framed  the  older  face.  It  was  done, 
and  Lucy  Ann  looked  at  herself  with  a  smile 
all  suffused  by  love  and  longing.  She  was  not 
herself  any  more  ;  she  had  gone  back  a  genera 
tion,  and  chosen  a  warmer  niche.  She  could 
have  kissed  her  face  in  the  glass,  it  was  so  like 
that  other  dearer  one.  She  did  finger  the  lit 
tle  curls,  with  a  reminiscent  passion,  not  daring 
to  think  of  the  darkness  where  the  others  had 
been  shut ;  and,  at  that  instant,  she  felt  very 
rich.  The  change  suggested  a  more  faithful 
portraiture,  and  she  went  up  into  the  spare 
room  and  looked  through  the  closet  where  her 


THE   WAY   OF   PEACE  179 

mother's  clothes  had  been  hanging  so  long,  un 
touched.  Selecting  a  purple  thibet,  with  a  lit 
tle  white  sprig,  she  slipped  off  her  own  dress, 
and  stepped  into  it.  She  crossed  a  muslin 
kerchief  on  her  breast,  and  pinned  it  with  the 
cameo  her  mother  had  been  used  to  wear.  It 
was  impossible  to  look  at  herself  in  the  doing  ; 
but  when  the  deed  was  over,  she  went  again  to 
the  glass  and  stood  there,  held  by  a  wonder 
beyond  her  will.  She  had  resurrected  the  crea 
ture  she  loved ;  this  was  an  enduring  portrait, 
perpetuating,  in  her  own  life,  another  life  as 
well. 

"  I  '11  pack  away  my  own  clo'es  to-morrer," 
said  Lucy  Ann  to  herself.  "  Them  are  the 
ones  to  be  put  aside." 

She  went  downstairs,  hushed  and  tremulous, 
and  seated  herself  again,  her  thin  hands  crossed 
upon  her  lap ;  and  there  she  stayed,  in  a  pleas 
ant  dream,  not  of  the  future,  and  not  even  of 
the  past,  but  face  to  face  with  a  recognition  of 
wonderful  possibilities.  She  had  dreaded  her 
loneliness  with  the  ache  that  is  despair ;  but 
she  was  not  lonely  any  more.  She  had  been 
allowed  to  set  up  a  little  model  of  the  taber 
nacle  where  she  had  worshiped ;  and,  having 
that,  she  ceased  to  be  afraid.  To  sit  there, 
clothed  in  such  sweet  familiarity  of  line  and 
likeness,  had  tightened  her  grasp  upon  the 
things  that  are.  She  did  not  seem  to  herself 
altogether  alive,  nor  was  her  mother  dead. 


l8o  TIVERTON   TALES 

They  had  been  fused,  by  some  wonderful 
alchemy  ;  and  instead  of  being  worlds  apart, 
they  were  at  one.  So,  John  Cummings,  her 
brother,  stepping  briskly  in,  after  tying  his 
horse  at  the  gate,  came  upon  her  unawares,  and 
started,  with  a  hoarse,  thick  cry.  It  was  in  the 
dusk  of  evening  ;  and,  seeing  her  outline  against 
the  window,  he  stepped  back  against  the  wall 
and  leaned  there  a  moment,  grasping  at  the 
casing  with  one  hand.  "  Good  God ! "  he 
breathed,  at  last,  "  I  thought  't  was  mother  !  " 

Lucy  Ann  rose,  and  went  forward  to  meet 
him. 

"  Then  it 's  true,"  said  she.  "  I  'm  so  pleased. 
Seems  as  if  I  could  git  along,  if  I  could  look  a 
little  mite  like  her." 

John  stood  staring  at  her,  frowning  in  his 
bewilderment. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  yourself  ? "  he 
asked.  "  Put  on  her  clo'es  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy  Ann,  "  but  that  ain't  all. 
I  guess  I  do  resemble  mother,  though  we  ain't 
any  of  us  had  much  time  to  think  about  it. 
Well,  I  am  pleased.  I  took  out  that  daguerre 
otype  she  had,  down  Saltash  way,  though  it 
don't  favor  her  as  she  was  at  the  end.  But  if  I 
can  take  a  glimpse  of  myself  in  the  glass,  now 
and  then,  mebbe  I  can  git  along." 

They  sat  down  together  in  the  dark,  and 
mused  over  old  memories.  John  had  always 
understood  Lucy  Ann  better  than  the  rest. 


THE  WAY  OF   PEACE  181 

When  she  gave  up  Simeon  Bascom  to  stay  at 
home  with  her  mother,  he  never  pitied  her 
much ;  he  knew  she  had  chosen  the  path  she 
loved.  The  other  day,  even,  some  one  had 
wondered  that  she  could  have  heard  the  funeral 
service  so  unmoved  ;  but  he,  seeing  how  her 
face  had  seemed  to  fade  and  wither  at  every 
word,  guessed  what  pain  was  at  her  heart.  So, 
though  his  wife  had  sent  him  over  to  ask  how 
Lucy  Ann  was  getting  on,  he  really  found  out 
very  little,  and  felt  how  painfully  dumb  he  must 
be  when  he  got  home.  Lucy  Ann  was  pretty 
well,  he  thought  he  might  say.  She  'd  got  to 
looking  a  good  deal  like  mother. 

They  took  their  "  blindman's  holiday,"  Lucy 
Ann  once  in  a  while  putting  a  stick  on  the 
leaping  blaze,  and,  when  John  questioned  her, 
giving  a  low-toned  reply.  Even  her  voice  had 
changed.  It  might  have  come  from  that  bed 
room,  in  one  of  the  pauses  between  hours  of 
pain,  and  neither  would  have  been  surprised. 

"  What  makes  you  burn  beech  ?  "  asked  John, 
when  a  shower  of  sparks  came  crackling  at 
them. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  Seems 
kind  o'  nat'ral.  Some  of  it  got  into  the  last 
cord  we  bought,  an'  one  night  it  snapped  out, 
an'  most  burnt  up  mother's  nightgown  an'  cap 
while  I  was  warmin'  'em.  We  had  a  real  time 
of  it.  She  scolded  me,  an'  then  she  laughed, 
an'  I  laughed  —  an'  so,  when  I  see  a  stick  or 


182  TIVERTON   TALES 

two  o'  beech  to-day,  I  kind  o'  picked  it  out 
a-purpose." 

John's  horse  stamped  impatiently  from  the 
gate,  and  John,  too,  knew  it  was  time  to  go. 
His  errand  was  not  done,  and  he  balked  at  it. 

"  Lucy  Ann,"  said  he,  with  the  bluntness  of 
resolve,  "what  you  goin'  to  do  ? " 

Lucy  Ann  looked  sweetly  at  him  through  the 
dark.  She  had  expected  that.  She  smoothed 
her  mother's  dress  with  one  hand,  and  it  gave 
her  courage. 

"  Do  ? "  said  she ;  "  why,  I  ain't  goin'  to  do 
nothin'.  I  've  got  enough  to  pull  through  on." 

"  Yes,  but  where  you  goin'  to  live  ?  " 

"  Here." 

"  Alone  ? " 

"  I  don't  feel  so  very  much  alone,"  said  she, 
smiling  to  herself.  At  that  moment  she  did 
not.  All  sorts  of  sweet  possibilities  had  made 
themselves  real.  They  comforted  her,  like  the 
presence  of  love. 

John  felt  himself  a  messenger.  He  was 
speaking  for  others  that  with  which  his  soul  did 
not  accord. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  he,  "they're  all  terrible 
set  ag'inst  it.  They  say  you  're  gittin'  along 
in  years.  So  you  be.  So  are  we  all.  But 
they  will  have  it,  it  ain't  right  for  you  to  live  on 
here  alone.  Mary  says  she  should  be  scairt  to 
death.  She  wants  you  should  come  an'  make 
it  your  home  with  us." 


THE  WAY  OF   PEACE  183 

"Yes,  I  dunno  but  Mary  would  be  scairt," 
said  Lucy  Ann  placidly.  "  But  I  ain't.  She 's 
real  good  to  ask  me  ;  but  I  can't  do  it,  no 
more  'n  she  could  leave  you  an'  the  children  an' 
come  over  here  to  stay  with  me.  Why,  John, 
this  is  my  home  !  " 

Her  voice  sank  upon  a  note  of  passion.  It 
trembled  with  memories  of  dewy  mornings  and 
golden  eves.  She  had  not  grown  here,  through 
all  her  youth  and  middle  life,  like  moss  upon  a 
rock,  without  fitting  into  the  hollows  and  soft 
ening  the  angles  of  her  poor  habitation.  She 
had  drunk  the  sunlight  and  the  rains  of  one 
small  spot,  and  she  knew  how  both  would  fall. 
The  place,  its  sky  and  clouds  and  breezes,  be 
longed  to  her :  but  she  belonged  to  it  as  well. 

John  stood  between  two  wills,  his  own  and 
that  of  those  who  had  sent  him.  Left  to  him 
self,  he  would  not  have  harassed  her.  To  him, 
also,  wedded  to  a  hearth  where  he  found  warmth 
and  peace,  it  would  have  been  sweet  to  live 
there  always,  though  alone,  and  die  by  the  light 
of  its  dying  fire.  But  Mary  thought  otherwise, 
and  in  matters  of  worldly  judgment  he  could 
only  yield. 

"  I  don't  want  you  should  make  a  mistake," 
said  he.  "  Mebbe  you  an'  I  don't  look  for'ard 
enough.  They  say  you  '11  repent  it  if  you  stay, 
an'  there  '11  be  a  hurrah-boys  all  round.  What 
say  to  makin'  us  a  visit  ?  That  '11  kind  o'  stave 
it  off,  an'  then  we  can  see  what 's  best  to  be 
done." 


184  TIVERTON   TALES 

Lucy  Ann  put  her  hands  to  her  delicate 
throat,  where  her  mother's  gold  beads  lay 
lightly,  with  a  significant  touch.  She,  like 
John,  had  an  innate  gentleness  of  disposition. 
She  distrusted  her  own  power  to  judge. 

"  Maybe  I  might,"  said  she  faintly.  "Oh, 
John,  do  you  think  I  've  got  to  ?  " 

"  It  need  n't  be  for  long,"  answered  John 
briefly,  though  he  felt  his  eyes  moist  with  pity 
of  her.  "  Mebbe  you  could  stay  a  month  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't  do  that !  "  cried  Lucy  Ann, 
in  wild  denial.  "I  never  could  in  the  world. 
If  you  '11  make  it  a  fortnight,  an'  harness  up 
yourself,  an'  bring  me  home,  mebbe  I  might." 

John  gave  his  word,  but  when  he  took  his 
leave  of  her,  she  leaned  forward  into  the  dark, 
where  the  impatient  horse  was  fretting,  and 
made  her  last  condition. 

"  You  '11  let  me  turn  the  key  on  things  here 
jest  as  they  be  ?  You  won't  ask  me  to  break 
up  nuthin'  ? " 

"  Break  up  !  "  repeated  John,  with  the  in 
tensity  of  an  oath.  "  I  guess  you  need  n't.  If 
anybody  puts  that  on  you,  you  send  'em  to  me." 

So  Lucy  Ann  packed  her  mother's  dresses 
into  a  little  hair  trunk  that  had  stood  in  the 
attic  unused  for  many  years,  and  went  away  to 
make  her  visit.  When  she  drove  up  to  the 
house,  sitting  erect  and  slender  in  her  mother's 
cashmere  shawl  and  black  bonnet,  Mary,  watch 
ing  from  the  window,  gave  a  little  cry,  as  at  the 


THE   WAY    OF   PEACE  18$ 

risen  dead.  John  had  told  her  about  Lucy 
Ann's  transformation,  but  she  put  it  all  aside  as 
a  crazy  notion,  not  likely  to  last :  now  it  seemed 
less  a  pathetic  masquerade  than  a  strange  by 
path  taken  by  nature  itself. 

The  children  regarded  it  with  awe,  and  half 
the  time  called  Lucy  Ann  "grandma."  That 
delighted  her.  Whenever  they  did  it,  she 
looked  up  to  say,  with  her  happiest  smile,  — 

"  There  !  that 's  complete.  You  '11  remember 
grandma,  won't  you  ?  We  must  n't  ever  forget 
her." 

Here,  in  this  warm-hearted  household,  anx 
ious  to  do  her  service  in  a  way  that  was  not  her 
own,  she  had  some  happiness,  of  a  tremulous 
kind  ;  but  it  was  all  built  up  of  her  trust  in  a 
speedy  escape.  She  knit  mittens,  and  sewed 
long  seams  ;  and  every  day  her  desire  to  fill  the 
time  was  irradiated  by  the  certainty  that  twelve 
hours  more  were  gone.  A  few  more  patient 
intervals,  and  she  should  be  at  home.  Some 
times,  as  the  end  of  her  visit  drew  nearer,  she 
woke  early  in  the  morning  with  a  sensation  of 
irresponsible  joy,  and  wondered,  for  an  instant, 
what  had  happened  to  her.  Then  it  always 
came  back,  with  an  inward  flooding  she  had 
scarcely  felt  even  in  her  placid  youth.  At 
home  there  would  be  so  many  things  to  do, 
and,  above  all,  such  munificent  leisure  !  For 
there  she  would  feel  no  need  of  feverish  action 
to  pass  the  time.  The  hours  would  take  care 


186  TIVERTON   TALES 

of  themselves  ;  they  would  fleet  by,  while  she 
sat,  her  hands  folded,  communing  with  old 
memories. 

The  day  came,  and  the  end  of  her  probation. 
She  trembled  a  good  deal,  packing  her  trunk  in 
secret,  to  escape  Mary 's  remonstrances  ;  but 
John  stood  by  her,  and  she  was  allowed  to  go. 

"You'll  get  sick  of  it,"  called  Mary  after 
them.  "  I  guess  you  '11  be  glad  enough  to  see 
the  children  again,  an'  they  will  you.  Mind, 
you've  got  to  come  back  an'  spend  the  winter." 

Lucy  Ann  nodded  happily.  She  could  agree 
to  anything  sufficiently  remote ;  and  the  winter 
was  not  yet  here. 

The  first  day  in  the  old  house  seemed  to  her 
like  new  birth  in  Paradise.  She  wandered 
about,  touching  chairs  and  tables  and  curtains, 
the  manifest  symbols  of  an  undying  past. 
There  were  loving  duties  to  be  done,  but  she 
could  not  do  them  yet.  She  had  to  look  her 
pleasure  in  the  face,  and  learn  its  lineaments. 

Next  morning  came  brother  Ezra,  and  Lucy 
Ann  hurried  to  meet  him  with  an  exaggerated 
welcome.  Life  was  never  very  friendly  to  Ezra, 
and  those  who  belonged  to  him  had  to  be  doubly 
kind.  They  could  not  change  his  luck,  but  they 
might  sweeten  it.  They  said  the  world  had  not 
gone  well  with  him ;  though  sometimes  it  was 
hinted  that  Ezra,  being  out  of  gear,  could  not 
go  with  the  world.  All  the  rivers  ran  away 
from  him,  and  went  to  turn  some  other  mill 


THE   WAY  OF   PEACE  187 

He  was  ungrudging  of  John's  prosperity,  but 
still  he  looked  at  it  in  some  disparagement,  and 
shook  his  head.  His  cheeks  were  channeled 
long  before  youth  was  over ;  his  feet  were 
weary  with  honest  serving,  and  his  hands  grown 
hard  with  toil.  Yet  he  had  not  arrived,  and 
John  was  at  the  goal  before  him. 

"  We  heard  you  'd  been  stayin'  with  John's 
folks,"  said  he  to  Lucy  Ann.  "Leastways, 
Abby  did,  an'  she  thinks  mebbe  you  've  got  a 
little  time  for  us  now,  though  we  ain't  nothin' 
to  offer  compared  to  what  you  're  used  to  over 
there." 

"  I  '11  come,"  said  Lucy  Ann  promptly. 
"  Yes,  I  '11  come,  an'  be  glad  to." 

It  was  part  of  her  allegiance  to  the  one  who 
had  gone. 

"Ezra  needs  bracin',"  she  heard  her  mother 
say,  in  many  a  sick-room  gossip.  "  He  's  got 
to  be  flattered  up,  an'  have  some  grit  put  into 
him." 

It  was  many  weeks  before  Lucy  Ann  came 
home  again.  Cousin  Rebecca,  in  Saltash,  sent 
her  a  cordial  letter  of  invitation  for  just  as  long 
as  she  felt  like  staying  ;  and  the  moneyed  cousin 
at  the  Ridge  wrote  in  like  manner,  following 
her  note  by  a  telegram,  intimating  that  she 
would  not  take  no  for  an  answer.  Lucy  Ann 
frowned  in  alarm  when  the  first  letter  came, 
and  studied  it  by  daylight  and  in  her  musings 
at  night,  as  if  some  comfort  might  lurk  between 


188  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  lines.  She  was  tempted  to  throw  it  in  the 
fire,  not  answered  at  all.  Still,  there  was  a 
reason  for  going.  This  cousin  had  a  broken 
hip,  she  needed  company,  and  the  flavor  of 
old  times.  The  other  had  married  a  "  drinkin' 
man,"  and  might  feel  hurt  at  being  refused. 
So,  fortifying  herself  with  some  inner  resolu 
tion  she  never  confessed,  Lucy  Ann  set  her 
teeth  and  started  out  on  a  visiting  campaign. 
John  was  amazed.  He  drove  over  to  see  her 
while  she  was  spending  a  few  days  with  an 
aunt  in  Sudleigh. 

"  When  you  been  home  last,  Lucy  Ann  ? " 
asked  he. 

A  little  flush  came  into  her  face,  and  she 
winked  bravely. 

"  I  ain't  been  home  at  all,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
tone.  "Not  sence  August." 

John  groped  vainly  in  mental  depths  for 
other  experiences  likely  to  illuminate  this.  He 
concluded  that  he  had  not  quite  understood 
Lucy  Ann  and  her  feeling  about  home;  but 
that  was  neither  here  nor  there. 

"Well,"  he  remarked,  rising  to  go,  "you're 
gittin'  to  be  quite  a  visitor." 

"  I  'm  tryin'  to  learn  how,"  said  Lucy  Ann, 
almost  gayly.  "  I  've  been  a-cousinin'  so  long, 
I  sha'n't  know  how  to  do  anything  else." 

But  now  the  middle  of  November  had  come, 
and  she  was  again  in  her  own  house.  Cousin 
Titcomb  had  brought  her  there  and  driven 


THE   WAY  OF  PEACE  189 

away,  concerned  that  he  must  leave  her  in  a 
cold  kitchen,  and  only  deterred  by  a  looming 
horse-trade  from  staying  to  build  a  fire.  Lucy 
Ann  bade  him  good-by,  with  a  gratitude  which 
was  not  for  her  visit,  but  all  for  getting  home ; 
and  when  he  uttered  that  terrifying  valedictory 
known  as  "  coming  again,"  she  could  meet  it 
cheerfully.  She  even  stood  in  the  door,  watch 
ing  him  away ;  and  not  until  the  rattle  of  his 
wheels  had  ceased  on  the  frozen  road,  did  she 
return  to  her  kitchen  and  stretch  her  shawled 
arms  pathetically  upward. 

"  I  thank  my  heavenly  Father  !  "  said  Lucy 
Ann,  with  the  fervency  of  a  great  experience. 

She  built  her  fire,  and  then  unpacked  her 
little  trunk,  and  hung  up  the  things  in  the 
bedroom  where  her  mother's  presence  seemed 
still  to  cling. 

"I'll  sleep  here  now,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  won't  go  out  of  this  no  more." 

Then  all  the  little  homely  duties  of  the  hour 
cried  out  upon  her,  like  children  long  neglected  ; 
and,  with  the  luxurious  leisure  of  those  who 
may  prolong  a  pleasant  task,  she  set  her  house 
in  order.  She  laid  out  a  programme  to  occupy 
her  days.  The  attic  should  be  cleaned  to-mor 
row.  In  one  day  ?  Nay,  why  not  three,  to  hold 
Time  still,  and  make  him  wait  her  pleasure? 
Then  there  were  the  chambers,  and  the  living- 
rooms  below.  She  felt  all  the  excited  joy  of 
youth ;  she  was  tasting  anticipation  at  its  best 


190  TIVERTON    TALES 

"  It  '11  take  me  a  week,"  said  she.  "  That 
will  be  grand."  She  could  hardly  wait  even 
for  the  morrow's  sun ;  and  that  night  she  slept 
like  those  of  whom  much  is  to  be  required,  and 
who  must  wake  in  season.  Morning  came,  and 
mid-forenoon,  and  while  she  stepped  about 
under  the  roof  where  dust  had  gathered  and 
bitter  herbs  told  tales  of  summers  past,  John 
drove  into  the  yard.  Lucy  Ann  threw  up  the 
attic  window  and  leaned  out. 

"  You  put  your  horse  up,  an'  I  '11  be  through 
here  in  a  second,"  she  called.  "  The  barn 's 
open." 

John  was  in  a  hurry. 

"  I  've  got  to  go  over  to  Sudleigh,  to  meet 
the  twelve  o'clock,"  said  he.  "  Harold  's  comin'. 
I  only  wanted  to  say  I  '11  be  over  after  you  the 
night  before  Thanksgivin'.  Mary  wants  you 
should  be  sure  to  be  there  to  breakfast.  You 
all  right  ?  Cephas  said  you  seemed  to  have  a 
proper  good  time  with  them." 

John  turned  skillfully  on  the  little  green  and 
drove  away.  Lucy  Ann  stayed  at  the  window 
watching  him,  the  breeze  lifting  her  gray  curls, 
and  the  sun  smiling  at  her.  She  withdrew 
slowly  into  the  attic,  and  sank  down  upon  the 
floor,  close  by  the  window.  She  sat  there  and 
thought,  and  the  wind  still  struck  upon  her  un 
heeded.  Was  she  always  to  be  subject  to  the 
tyranny  of  those  who  had  set  up  their  hearth 
stones  in  a  more  enduring  form?  Was  her 


THE   WAY  OF   PEACE  191 

home  not  a  home  merely  because  there  were 
no  men  and  children  in  it  ?  She  drew  her 
breath  sharply,  and  confronted  certain  problems 
of  the  greater  world,  not  knowing  what  they 
were.  To  Lucy  Ann  they  did  not  seem  prob 
lems  at  all.  They  were  simply  touches  on  the 
individual  nerve,  and  she  felt  the  pain.  Her 
own  inner  self  throbbed  in  revolt,  but  she  never 
guessed  that  any  other  part  of  nature  was 
throbbing  with  it.  Then  she  went  about  her 
work,  with  the  patience  of  habit.  It  was  well 
that  the  attic  should  be  cleaned,  though  the 
savor  of  the  task  was  gone. 

Next  day,  she  walked  to  Sudleigh,  with  a 
basket  on  her  arm.  Often  she  sent  her  little 
errands  by  the  neighbors ;  but  to-day  she  was 
uneasy,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  walk  might  do 
her  good.  She  wanted  some  soda  and  some 
needles  and  thread.  She  tried  to  think  they 
were  very  important,  though  some  sense  of 
humor  told  her  grimly  that  household  goods 
are  of  slight  use  to  one  who  goes  a-cousining. 
Her  day  at  John's  would  be  prolonged  to  seven  ; 
nay,  why  not  a  month,  when  the  winter  itself 
was  not  too  great  a  tax  for  them  to  lay  upon 
her  ?  In  her  deserted  house,  soda  would  lose 
its  strength,  and  even  cloves  decay.  Lucy  Ann 
felt  her  will  growing  very  weak  within  her  ; 
indeed,  at  that  time,  she  was  hardly  conscious 
of  having  any  will  at  all. 

It  was  Saturday,  and  John  and  Ezra  were 


192  TIVERTON   TALES 

almost  sure  to  be  in  town.  She  thought  of 
that,  and  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  hear  from 
the  folks  :  so  much  pleasanter  than  to  be  always 
facing  them  on  their  own  ground,  and  never  on 
hers.  At  the  grocery  she  came  upon  Ezra, 
mounted  on  a  wagon-load  of  meal-bags,  and  just 
gathering  up  the  reins. 

"  Hullo  ! "  he  called.     «  You  did  n't  walk  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  jest  clipped  it  over,"  returned  Lucy 
Ann  carelessly.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  git  a  ride  home. 
I  see  Marden's  wagon  when  I  come  by  the 
post-office." 

"  Well,  I  had  n't  any  expectation  o*  your 
bein'  here,"  said  Ezra.  "  I  meant  to  ride  round 
to-morrer.  We  want  you  to  spend  Thanks- 
givin'  Day  with  us.  I  '11  come  over  arter  you." 

"  Oh,  Ezra ! "  said  Lucy  Ann,  quite  sin 
cerely,  with  her  concession  to  his  lower  for 
tunes,  "  why  did  n't  you  say  so  !  John 's  asked 
me." 

"The  dogs  !  "  said  Ezra.  It  was  his  deepest 
oath.  Then  he  drew  a  sigh.  "  Well,"  he  con 
cluded,  "that's  our  luck.  We  al'ays  come  out 
the  leetle  end  o'  the  horn.  Abby  '11  be  real 
put  out.  She  'lotted  on  it.  Well,  John  's  in 
side  there.  He  's  buyin'  up  'bout  everything 
there  is.  You  '11  git  more  'n  you  would  with 
us." 

He  drove  -gloomily  away,  and  Lucy  Ann 
stepped  into  the  store,  musing.  She  was 
rather  sorry  not  to  go  to  Ezra's,  if  he  cared 


THE  WAY   OF   PEACE  193 

It  almost  seemed  as  if  she  might  ask  John 
to  let  her  take  the  plainer  way.  John  would 
understand.  She  saw  him  at  once  where  he 
stood,  prosperous  and  hale,  in  his  great-coat, 
reading  items  from  a  long  memorandum,  while 
Jonathan  Stevens  weighed  and  measured.  The 
store  smelled  of  spice,  and  the  clerk  that  minute 
spilled  some  cinnamon.  Its  fragrance  struck 
upon  Lucy  Ann  like  a  call  from  some  far-off 
garden,  to  be  entered  if  she  willed.  She  laid  a 
hand  on  her  brother's  arm,  and  her  lips  opened 
to  words  she  had  not  chosen  :  - 

"  John,  you  should  n't  ha'  drove  away  so 
quick,  t'  other  day.  You  jest  flung  out  your 
invitation  an'  run.  You  never  give  me  no  time 
to  answer.  Ezra  's  asked  me  to  go  there." 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  smart!  "  returned  John. 
"  Put  in  ahead,  did  he  ?  Well,  I  guess  it 's 
the  fust  time  he  ever  got  round.  I  'm  terrible 
sorry,  Lucy.  The  children  won't  think  it 's  any 
kind  of  a  Thanksgivin'  without  you.  Somehow 
they  've  got  it  into  their  heads  it 's  grandma 
comin'.  They  can't  seem  to  understand  the 
difference." 

"  Well,  you  tell  'em  I  guess  grandma  's  kind 
o'  pleased  for  me  to  plan  it  as  I  have,"  said 
Lucy  Ann,  almost  gayly.  Her  face  wore  a 
strange,  excited  look.  She  breathed  a  little 
faster.  She  saw  a  pleasant  way  before  her, 
and  her  feet  seemed  to  be  tending  toward  it 
without  her  own  volition,  "  You  give  my  love 


194  TIVERTON   TALES 

to  'em.  I  guess  they'll  have  a  proper  nice 
time." 

She  lingered  about  the  store  until  John  had 
gone,  and  then  went  forward  to  the  counter. 
The  storekeeper  looked  at  her  respectfully. 
Everybody  had  a  great  liking  for  Lucy  Ann. 
She  had  been  a  faithful  daughter,  and  now  that 
she  seemed,  in  so  mysterious  a  way,  to  be 
growing  like  her  mother,  even  men  of  her  own 
age  regarded  her  with  deference. 

"  Mr.  Stevens,"  said  she,  "  I  did  n't  bring  so 
much  money  with  me  as  I  might  if  I  'd  had  my 
wits  about  me.  Should  you  jest  as  soon  trust 
me  for  some  Thanksgivin'  things  ?  " 

"  Certain,"  replied  Jonathan.  "  Clean  out 
the  store,  if  you  want.  Your  credit 's  good." 
He,  too,  felt  the  beguilement  of  the  time. 

"  I  want  some  things,"  repeated  Lucy  Ann, 
with  determination.  "  Some  cinnamon  an'  some 
mace  —  there  !  I  '11  tell  you,  while  you  weigh." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  buying  the 
spice  islands  of  the  world ;  and  though  the 
money  lay  at  home  in  her  drawer,  honestly 
ready  to  pay,  the  recklessness  of  credit  gave 
her  an  added  joy.  The  store  had  its  market, 
also,  at  Thanksgiving  time,  and  she  bargained 
for  a  turkey.  It  could  be  sent  her,  the  day 
before,  by  some  of  the  neighbors.  When  she 
left  the  counter,  her  arms  and  her  little  basket 
were  filled  with  bundles.  Joshua  Harden  was 
glad  to  take  them. 


THE  WAY   OF   PEACE  195 

"  No,  I  won't  ride,"  said  Lucy  Ann.  "  Much 
obliged  to  you.  Jest  leave  the  things  inside 
the  fence.  I  'd  ruther  walk.  I  don't  git  out 
any  too  often." 

She  took  her  way  home  along  the  brown 
road,  stepping  lightly  and  swiftly,  and  full  of 
busy  thoughts.  Flocks  of  birds  went  whirring 
by  over  the  yellowed  fields.  Lucy  Ann  could 
have  called  out  to  them,  in  joyous  understand 
ing,  they  looked  so  free.  She,  too,  seemed  to 
be  flying  on  the  wings  of  a  fortunate  wind. 

All  that  week  she  scrubbed  and  regulated, 
and  took  a  thousand  capable  steps  as  briskly 
as  those  who  work  for  the  home-coming  of 
those  they  love.  The  neighbors  dropped  in, 
one  after  another,  to  ask  where  she  was  going 
to  spend  Thanksgiving.  Some  of  them  said, 
"  Won't  you  pass  the  day  with  us  ?  "  but  Lucy 
Ann  replied  blithely  :  — 

"  Oh,  John 's  invited  me  there  ! " 

All  that  week,  too,  she  answered  letters, 
in  her  cramped  and  careful  hand  ;  for  cousins 
had  bidden  her  to  the  feast.  Over  the  letters 
she  had  many  a  troubled  pause,  for  one  cousin 
lived  near  Ezra,  and  had  to  be  told  that  John 
had  invited  her ;  and  to  three  others,  dan 
gerously  within  hail  of  each,  she  made  her 
excuse  a  turncoat,  to  fit  the  time.  Duplicity 
in  black  and  white  did  hurt  her  a  good  deal, 
and  she  sometimes  stopped,  in  the  midst  of  her 
slow  transcription,  to  look  up  piteously  and  say 
aloud  :  — 


196  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  forgiven  !  "  But  by  the 
time  the  stamp  was  on,  and  the  pencil  ruling 
erased,  her  heart  was  light  again.  If  she  had 
sinned,  she  was  finding  the  path  intoxicatingly 
pleasant. 

Through  all  the  days  before  the  festival,  no 
house  exhaled  a  sweeter  savor  than  this  little 
one  on  the  green.  Lucy  Ann  did  her  minia 
ture  cooking  with  great  seriousness  and  care. 
She  seemed  to  be  dwelling  in  a  sacred  isolation, 
yet  not  altogether  alone,  but  with  her  mother 
and  all  their  bygone  years.  Standing  at  her 
table,  mixing  and  tasting,  she  recalled  stories 
her  mother  had  told  her,  until,  at  moments,  it 
seemed  as  if  she  not  only  lived  her  own  life, 
but  some  previous  one,  through  that  being 
whose  blood  ran  with  hers.  She  was  realizing 
that  ineffable  sense  of  possession  born  out  of 
knowledge  that  the  enduring  part  of  a  person 
ality  is  ours  forever,  and  that  love  is  an  un- 
quenched  fire,  fed  by  memory  as  well  as  hope. 

On  Thanksgiving  morning,  Lucy  Ann  lay  in 
bed  a  little  later,  because  that  had  been  the 
family  custom.  Then  she  rose  to  her  exquisite 
house,  and  got  breakfast  ready,  according  to 
the  unswerving  programme  of  the  day.  Fried 
chicken  and  mince  pie  :  she  had  had  them  as 
a  child,  and  now  they  were  scrupulously  pre 
pared.  After  breakfast,  she  sat  down  in  the 
sunshine,  and  watched  the  people  go  by  to  ser 
vice  in  Tiverton  Church.  Lucy  Ann  would 


THE   WAY  OF   PEACE  197 

have  liked  going,  too;  but  there  would  be  in 
convenient  questioning,  as  there  always  must 
be  when  we  meet  our  kind.  She  would  stay 
undisturbed  in  her  seclusion,  keeping  her  fes 
tival  alone.  The  morning  was  still  young  when 
she  put  her  turkey  in  the  oven,§and  made  the 
vegetables  ready.  Lucy  Ann  was  not  very  fond 
of  vegetables,  but  there  had  to  be  just  so  many 
—  onions,  turnips,  and  squash  baked  with 
molasses  —  for  her  mother  was  a  Cape  woman, 
preserving  the  traditions  of  dear  Cape  dishes. 
All  that  forenoon,  the  little  house  throbbed 
with  a  curious  sense  of  expectancy.  Lucy  Ann 
was  preparing  so  many  things  that  it  seemed 
as  if  somebody  must  surely  keep  her  company ; 
but  when  dinner-time  struck,  and  she  was  still 
alone,  there  came  no  lull  in  her  anticipation. 
Peace  abode  with  her,  and  wrought  its  own  fair 
work.  She  ate  her  dinner  slowly,  with  medita 
tion  and  a  thankful  heart.  She  did  not  need  to 
hear  the  minister's  careful  catalogue  of  mercies 
received.  She  was  at  home  ;  that  was  enough. 
After  dinner,  when  she  had  done  up  the  work, 
and  left  the  kitchen  without  spot  or  stain,  she 
went  upstairs,  and  took  out  her  mother's  beau 
tiful  silk  poplin,  the  one  saved  for  great  occa 
sions,  and  only  left  behind  because  she  had 
chosen  to  be  buried  in  her  wedding  gown. 
Lucy  Ann  put  it  on  with  careful  hands,  and 
then  laid  about  her  neck  the  wrought  collar  she 
had  selected  the  day  before.  She  looked  at 


198  TIVERTON   TALES 

herself  in  the  glass,  and  arranged  a  gray  curl 
with  anxious  scrutiny.  No  girl  adorning  for 
her  bridal  could  have  examined  every  fold  and 
line  with  a  more  tender  care.  She  stood  there 
a  long,  long  moment,  and  approved  herself. 

"  It 's  a  worflder,"  she  said  reverently.  "It 's 
the  greatest  mercy  anybody  ever  had." 

The  afternoon  waned,  though  not  swiftly ; 
for  Time  does  not  always  gallop  when  happi 
ness  pursues.  Lucy  Ann  could  almost  hear 
the  gliding  of  his  rhythmic  feet.  She  did  the 
things  set  aside  for  festivals,  or  the  days  when 
we  have  company.  She  looked  over  the  pho 
tograph  album,  and  turned  the  pages  of  the 
"Ladies'  Wreath."  When  she  opened  the  case 
containing  that  old  daguerreotype,  she  scanned 
it  with  a  little  distasteful  smile,  and  then  glanced 
up  at  her  own  image  in  the  glass,  nodding  her 
head  in  thankful  peace.  She  was  the  enduring 
portrait.  In  herself,  she  might  even  see  her 
mother  grow  very  old.  So  the  hours  slipped 
on  into  dusk,  and  she  sat  there  with  her  dream, 
knowing,  though  it  was  only  a  dream,  how  sane 
it  was,  and  good.  When  wheels  came  rattling 
into  the  yard,  she  awoke  with  a  start,  and 
John's  voice,  calling  to  her  in  an  inexplicable 
alarm,  did  not  disturb  her.  She  had  had  her 
day.  Not  all  the  family  fates  could  take  it 
from  her  now.  John  kept  calling,  even  while 
his  wife  and  children  were  climbing  down, 
unaided,  from  the  great  carryall.  His  voice 


THE   WAY  OF   PEACE  199 

proclaimed  its  own  story,  and  Lucy  Ann  heard 
it  with  surprise. 

"  Lucy !  Lucy  Ann  !  "  he  cried.  "  You  here  ? 
You  show  yourself,  if  you  're  all  right." 

Before  they  reached  the  front  door,  Lucy 
Ann  had  opened  it  and  stood  there,  gently 
welcoming. 

"Yes,  here  I  be,"  said  she.  "Come  right 
in,  all  of  ye.  Why,  if  that  ain't  Ezra,  too,  an* 
his  folks,  turnin'  into  the  lane.  When  'd  you 
plan  it?" 

"  Plan  it !  we  did  n't  plan  it !  "  said  Mary 
testily.  She  put  her  hand  on  Lucy  Ann's 
shoulder,  to  give  her  a  little  shake ;  but,  feeling 
mother's  poplin,  she  forbore. 

Lucy  Ann  retreated  before  them  into  the 
house,  and  they  all  trooped  in  after  her. 
Ezra's  family,  too,  were  crowding  in  at  the 
doorway;  and  the  brothers,  who  had  paused 
only  to  hitch  the  horses,  filled  up  the  way  be 
hind.  Mary,  by  a  just  self-election,  was  always 
the  one  to  speak. 

"I  declare,  Lucy!"  cried  she,  "if  ever  I 
could  be  tried  with  you,  I  should  be  now. 
Here  we  thought  you  was  at  Ezra's,  an'  Ezra's 
folks  thought  you  was  with  us  ;  an'  if  we  had  n't 
harnessed  up,  an'  drove  over  there  in  the  after 
noon,  for  a  kind  of  a  surprise  party,  we  should 
ha'  gone  to  bed  thinkin'  you  was  somewhere, 
safe  an'  sound.  An'  here  you  've  been,  all  day 
long,  in  this  lonesome  house  !  " 


200  TIVERTON   TALES 

"You  let  me  git  a  light,"  said  Lucy  Ann 
calmly.  "  You  be  takin'  off  your  things,  an'  se' 
down."  She  began  lighting  the  tall  astral  lamp 
on  the  table,  and  its  prisms  danced  and  swung. 
Lucy  Ann's  delicate  hand  did  not  tremble ; 
and  when  the  flame  burned  up  through  the 
shining  chimney,  more  than  one  started,  at 
seeing  how  exactly  she  resembled  grandma,  ip 
the  days  when  old  Mrs.  Cummings  had  nii^d 
her  own  house.  Perhaps  it  was  the  royalty  of 
the  poplin  that  enwrapped  her ;  but  Lucy  Ann 
looked  very  capable  of  holding  her  own.  She 
was  facing  them  all,  one  hand  resting  on  the 
table,  and  a  little  smile  flickering  over  her  face. 

"  I  s'pose  I  was  a  poor  miserable  creatur'  to 
git  out  of  it  that  way,"  said  she.  "  If  I  'd  felt 
as  I  do  now,  I  need  n't  ha'  done  it.  I  could  ha* 
spoke  up.  But  then  it  seemed  as  if  there  wa'n't 
no  other  way.  I  jest  wanted  my  Thanksgivin' 
in  my  own  home,  an'  so  I  throwed  you  off  the 
track  the  best  way  I  could.  I  dunno  's  I  lied. 
I  dunno  whether  I  did  or  not ;  but  I  guess, 
anyway,  I  shall  be  forgiven  for  it." 

Ezra  spoke  first :  "  Well,  if  you  did  n't  vant 
to  come  "  — 

"Want  to  come!"  broke  in  John.  "O\ 
course  she  don't  want  to  come  !  She  wants  to 
stay  in  her  own  home,  an'  call  her  soul  her  own 
—  don't  you,  Lucy  ?  " 

Lucy  Ann  glanced  at  him  with  her  quick, 
grateful  smile. 


THE  WAY  OF  PEACE  201 

"  I  'm  goin'  to,  now,"  she  said  gently,  and 
they  knew  she  meant  it. 

But,  looking  about  among  them,  Lucy  Ann 
was  conscious  of  a  little  hurt  unhealed;  she 
had  thrown  their  kindness  back. 

"  I  guess  I  can't  tell  exactly  how  it  is,"  she 
began  hesitatingly  ;  "  but  you  see  my  home  's 
my  own,  jest  as  yours  is.  You  could  n't  any  of 
you  go  round  cousinin',  without  feelin'  you  was 
tore  up  by  the  roots.  You  've  all  been  real 
good  to  me,  wantin'  me  to  come,  an'  I  s'pose 
I  should  make  an  awful  towse  if  I  never  was 
asked ;  but  now  I  Ve  got  all  my  visitin'  done 
up,  cousins  an'  all,  an'  I  'm  goin'  to  be  to  home 
a  spell.  An'  I  do  admire  to  have  company," 
added  Lucy  Ann,  a  bright  smile  breaking  over 
her  face.  "  Mother  did,  you  know,  an'  I  guess 
I  take  arter  her.  Now  you  lay  off  your  things, 
an'  I  '11  put  the  kettle  on.  I  've  got  more  pies  'n 
you  could  shake  a  stick  at,  an'  there 's  a  whole 
loaf  o'  fruit-cake,  a  year  old." 

Mary,  taking  off  her  shawl,  wiped  her  eyes 
surreptitiously  on  a  corner  of  it,  and  Abby 
whispered  to  her  husband,  "  Dear  creatur'  !  " 
John  and  Ezra  turned,  by  one  consent,  to  put 
the  horses  in  the  barn ;  and  the  children,  con 
scious  that  some  mysterious  affair  had  been 
settled,  threw  themselves  into  the  occasion 
with  an  irresponsible  delight.  The  room  be 
came  at  once  vocal  with  talk  and  laughter,  and 
Lucy  Ann  felt,  with  a  swelling  heart,  what  a 


202  TIVERTON   TALES 

happy  universe  it  is  where  so  many  bridges  lie 
between  this  world  and  that  unknown  state  we 
call  the  next.  But  no  moment  of  that  evening 
was  half  so  sweet  to  her  as  the  one  when  little 
John,  the  youngest  child  of  all,  crept  up  to  her 
and  pulled  at  her  poplin  skirt,  until  she  bent 
down  to  hear. 

"Grandma,"   said    he,   "when   'd    you    get 
well  ? " 


THE   EXPERIENCE   OF   HANNAH 
PRIME 

TIVERTON  HOLLOW  had  occasionally  an 
evening  meeting;  this  came  about  naturally 
whenever  religious  zeal  burned  high,  or  when 
the  congregation  felt,  with  some  uneasiness, 
that  it  had  remained  too  long  aloof  from  spir 
itual  things.  To-night,  the  schoolhouse  had 
been  designated  for  an  assembling  place,  and 
the  neighborhood  trooped  thither,  animated  by 
an  excited  importance,  and  doing  justice  to  the 
greatness  of  the  occasion  by  "dressing  up." 
Farmers  had  laid  aside  their  ordinary  mood, 
with  overalls  and  jumpers,  and  donned  an  un 
comfortable  solemnity,  an  enforced  attitude  of 
theological  reflection,  with  their  stocks.  Wives 
had  urged  their  patient  fingers  into  cotton 
gloves,  and  in  cashmere  shawls,  and  bonnets 
retrimmed  with  reference  to  this  year's  style, 
pressed  into  the  uncomfortable  chairs,  and  folded 
their  hands  upon  the  desks  before  them  in 
a  sweet  seriousness  not  unmingled  with  the  de 
sire  of  thriftily  completing  a  duty  no  less  exi 
gent  than  pickle-making,  or  the  work  of  spring 
and  fall.  Last  came  the  boys,  clattering  with 
awkward  haste  over  the  dusty  floor  which  had 


204  TIVERTON   TALES 

known  the  touch  of  their  bare  feet  on  other 
days.  They  looked  about  the  room  with  some 
awe  and  a  puzzled  acceptance  of  its  being  the 
same,  yet  not  the  same.  It  was  their  own. 
There  were  the  maps  of  North  and  South 
America ;  the  yellowed  evergreens,  relic  of  "  Last 
Day,"  still  festooned  the  windows,  and  an  in 
tricate  "  sum,"  there  explained  to  the  uncom 
prehending  admiration  of  the  village  fathers, 
still  adorned  the  blackboard.  Yet  the  room 
had  strangely  transformed  itself  into  an  alien 
temple,  invaded  by  theology  and  the  breath  of 
an  unknown  world.  But  though  sobered,  they 
were  not  cast  down  ;  for  the  occasion  was  en 
livened,  in  their  case,  by  a  heaven-defying  pro 
fligacy  of  intent.  Every  one  of  them  knew 
that  Sammy  Forbes  had  in  his  pocket  a  pack  of 
cards,  which  he  meant  to  drop,  by  wicked  but 
careless  design,  just  when  Deacon  Pitts  led  in 
prayer,  and  that  Tom  Drake  was  master  of  a 
concealed  pea-shooter,  which  he  had  sworn, 
with  all  the  asseverations  held  sacred  by  boys, 
to  use  at  some  dramatic  moment.  All  the 
band  were  aware  that  neither  of  these  daring 
deeds  would  be  done.  The  prospective  actors 
themselves  knew  it ;  but  it  was  a  darling  joy 
to  contemplate  the  remote  possibility  thereof. 

Deacon  Pitts  opened  the  meeting,  reminding 
his  neighbors  how  precious  a  privilege  it  is  for 
two  or  three  to  be  gathered  together.  His 
companion  had  not  been  able  to  come.  (The 


EXPERIENCE   OF   HANNAH   PRIME    205 

entire  neighborhood  knew  that  Mrs.  Pitts  had 
been  laid  low  by  an  attack  of  erysipelas,  and 
that  she  was,  at  the  moment,  in  a  dark  bed 
room  at  home,  helpless  under  elderblow.) 

"  She  lays  there  on  a  bed  of  pain,"  said  the 
deacon.  "  But  she  says  to  me,  '  You  go.  Bet 
ter  the  house  o'  mournin'  than  the  house  o' 
feastinY  she  says.  Oh,  my  friends !  what  can 
be  more  blessed  than  the  counsel  of  an  aged 
and  feeble  companion  ?  " 

The  deacon  sat  down,  and  Tom  Drake,  his 
finger  on  the  pea-shooter,  assured  himself,  in 
acute  mental  triumph,  that  he  had  almost  done 
it  that  time. 

Then  followed  certain  incidents  eminently 
pleasing  to  the  boys.  To  their  unbounded  re 
lief,  Sarah  Frances  Giles  rose  to  speak,  weeping 
as  she  began.  She  always  wept  at  prayer  meet 
ing,  though  at  the  very  moment  of  asserting 
her  joy  that  she  cherished  a  hope,  and  her  grat 
itude  that  she  was  so  nearly  at  an  end  of  this 
earthly  pilgrimage  and  ready  to  take  her  stand 
on  the  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire.  The 
boys  reveled  in  her  testimony.  They  were  in 
a  state  of  bitter  uneasiness  before  she  rose,  and 
gnawed  with  a  consuming  impatience  until  she 
began  to  cry.  Then  they  wondered  if  she 
could  possibly  leave  out  the  sea  of  glass ;  and 
when  it  duly  came,  they  gave  a  sigh  of  satiated 
bliss  and  sank  into  acquiescence  in  whatever 
might  happen.  This  was  a  rich  occasion  to 


206  TIVERTON  TALES 

their  souls,  for  Silas  Harden,  who  was  seldom 
moved  by  the  spirit,  fell  upon  his  knees  to 
pray ;  but  at  the  same  unlucky  instant,  his 
sister-in-law,  for  whom  he  cherished  an  un 
bounded  scorn,  rose  (being  "nigh-eyed"  and 
ignorant  of  his  priority)  and  began  to  speak. 
For  a  moment,  the  two  held  on  together,  "  neck 
and  neck,"  as  the  happy  boys  afterward  re 
membered,  and  then  Silas  got  up,  dusted  his 
knees,  and  sat  down,  not  to  rise  again  at  any 
spiritual  call.  "  An'  a  madder  man  you  never 
see,"  cried  all  the  Hollow  next  day,  in  shocked 
but  gleeful  memory. 

Taking  it  all  in  all,  the  meeting  had  thus  far 
mirrored  others  of  its  class.  If  the  droning 
experiences  were  devoid  of  all  human  passion, 
it  was  chiefly  because  they  had  to  be  expressed 
in  the  phrases  of  strict  theological  usage.  There 
was  an  unspoken  agreement  that  feelings  of 
this  sort  should  be  described  in  a  certain  way. 
They  were  not  the  affairs  of  the  hearth  and 
market ;  they  were  matters  pertaining  to  that 
awful  entity  called  the  soul,  and  must  be  dressed 
in  the  fine  linen  which  she  had  herself  elected 
to  wear. 

Suddenly,  in  a  wearisome  pause,  when  minds 
had  begun  to  stray  toward  the  hayfield  and  to 
morrow's  churning,  the  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  the  Widow  Prime  walked  in.  She  was 
quite  unused  to  seeking  her  kind,  and  the  little 
assembly  at  once  awoke,  under  the  stimulus  of 


EXPERIENCE   OF   HANNAH   PRIME    207 

surprise.     They    knew  quite  well  where  she 
had  been  walking :  to  Sudleigh  Jail,  to  visit  her 
only  son,  lying  there  for  the  third  time,  not,  as 
usual,  for  drunkenness,  but  for  house-breaking. 
She  was  a  wiry  woman,  a  mass  of  muscles  ani 
mated  by  an  eager  energy.     Her  very  hands 
seemed  knotted  with  clenching  themselves  in 
nervous  spasms.     Her  eyes  were  black,  seeking, 
and  passionate,  and  her  face  had  been  scored 
by   fine   wrinkles,   the   marks   of   anxiety  and 
grief.     Her  chocolate  calico  was  very  clean,  and 
her  palm-leaf  shawl  and  black  bonnet  were  de 
cent  in  their  poverty.     The  vague  excitement 
created  by  her  coming  continued  in  a  rustling 
like  that  of  leaves.     The  troubles  of  Hannah 
Prime's  life  had  been  very  bitter  —  so  bitter 
that  she  had,  as  Deacon  Pitts  once  said,  after 
undertaking  her  conversion,  turned  from  "  me 
and  the  house  of  God."     A  quickening  thought 
sprang  up  now  in  the  little  assembly  that  she 
was  "  under  conviction,"  and  that  it  had  become 
the  present  duty  of  every  professor  to  lead  her 
to  the  throne  of  grace.     This  was  an  exigency 
for  which  none  were  prepared.     At  so  strenu 
ous  a  challenge,  the  old  conventional  ways  of 
speech  fell  down  and  collapsed  before  them,  like 
creatures  filled  with  air.     Who  should  minister 
to  one  set  outside  their  own  comfortable  lives 
by  bitter  sorrow  and  wounded  pride  ?     What 
could  they  offer  a  woman  who  had,  in  one  way 
or  another,  sworn  to  curse  God  and  die  ?     It 


208  TIVERTON   TALES 

was  Deacon  Pitts  who  spoke,  but  in  a  tone 
hushed  to  the  key  of  the  unexpected. 

"  Has  any  one  an  experience  to  offer  ?  Will 
any  brother  or  sister  lead  in  prayer  ?  " 

The  silence  was  growing  into  a  thing  to  be 
recognized  and  conquered,  when,  to  the  wonder 
of  her  neighbors,  Hannah  Prime  herself  rose. 
She  looked  slowly  about  the  room,  gazing  into 
every  face  as  if  to  challenge  an  honest  under 
standing.  Then  she  began  speaking  in  a  low 
voice  thrilled  by  an  emotion  not  yet  explained. 
Unused  to  expressing  herself  in  public,  she 
seemed  to  be  feeling  her  way.  The  silence, 
pride,  endurance,  which  had  been  her  armor 
for  many  years,  were  no  longer  apparent ;  she 
had  thrown  down  all  her  defenses  with  a  grave 
composure,  as  if  life  suddenly  summoned  her 
to  higher  issues. 

"  I  dunno  's  I  've  got  an  experience  to  offer," 
she  said.  "  I  dunno  's  it 's  religion.  I  dunno 
what  't  is.  Mebbe  you  'd  say  it  don't  belong  to 
a  meetin'.  But  when  I  come  by  an'  see  you 
all  settin'  here,  it  come  over  me  I  'd  like  to 
tell  somebody.  Two  weeks  ago  I  was  most 
crazy  "-  She  paused  of  necessity,  for  some 
thing  broke  in  her  voice. 

"That 's  the  afternoon  Jim  was  took,"  whis 
pered  a  woman  to  her  neighbor.  Hannah 
Prime  went  on. 

"  I  jest  as  soon  tell  it  now.  I  can  teD  ye  all 
together  what  I  could  n't  say  to  one  on  yc  oion« ; 


EXPERIENCE   OF   HANNAH   PRIME    209 

an*  if  anybody  speaks  to  me  about  it  arterwards, 
they  '11  wish  they  had  n't.  I  was  all  by  myself  in 
the  house.  I  set  down  in  my  clock-room,  about 
three  in  the  arternoon,  an'  there  I  set.  I  did  n't 
git  no  supper.  I  couldn't.  I  set  there  an' 
heard  the  clock  tick.  Byme-by  it  struck  seven, 
an'  that  waked  me  up.  I  thought  I  'd  gone 
crazy.  The  riggers  on  the  wall-paper  provoked 
me  most  to  death ;  an'  that  red-an'-white  tidy 
I  made,  the  winter  I  was  laid  up,  seemed  to  be 
talkin'  out  loud.  I  got  up  an'  run  outdoor  jest 
as  fast  as  I  could  go.  I  run  out  behind  the 
house  an'  down  the  cart-path  to  that  pile  o' 
rocks  that  overlooks  the  lake ;  an'  there  I  got 
out  o'  breath  an'  dropped  down  on  a  big  rock. 
An'  there  I  set,  jest  as  still  as  I  'd  been  settin' 
when  I  was  in  the  house." 

Here  a  little  girl  stirred  in  her  seat,  and  her 
mother  leaned  forward  and  shook  her,  with 
alarming  energy.  "  I  never  was  so  hard  with 
Mary  L.  afore,"  she  explained  the  next  day, 
"  but  I  was  as  nervous  as  a  witch.  I  thought, 
if  I  heard  a  pin  drop,  I  should  scream." 

"  I  dunno  how  long  I  set  there,"  went  on 
Hannah  Prime,  "  but  byme-by  it  begun  to  come 
over  me  how  still  the  lake  was.  'T  was  like 
glass ;  an'  way  over  where  it  runs  in  'tween 
them  islands,  it  burnt  like  fire.  Then  I  looked 
up  a  little  further,  to  see  what  kind  of  a  sky 
there  was.  'T  was  light  green,  with  clouds  in 
it,  all  fire,  an'  it  begun  to  seem  to  me  as  if  it 


210  TIVERTON  TALES 

was  a  kind  o'  land  an'  water  up  there  — like 
our'n,  on'y  not  solid.  I  set  there  an'  looked 
at  it ;  an'  I  picked  out  islands,  an'  ma'sh-land, 
an'  p'ints  running  out  into  the  yeller-green  sea. 
An'  everything  grew  stiller  an'  stiller.  The 
loons  struck  up,  down  on  the  lake,  with  that 
kind  of  a  lonesome  whinner ;  but  that  on'y 
made  the  rest  of  it  seem  quieter.  An'  it  begun 
to  grow  dark  all  'round  me.  I  dunno  's  I  ever 
noticed  before  jest  how  the  dark  comes.  It 
sifted  down  like  snow,  on'y  you  could  n't  see  it. 
Well,  I  set  there,  an'  I  tried  to  keep  stiller  an' 
stiller,  like  everything  else.  Seemed  as  if  I 
must.  An'  pretty  soon  I  knew  suthin'  was 
walkin'  towards  me  over  the  lot.  I  kep'  my  eyes 
on  the  sky ;  for  I  knew  't  would  break  suthin' 
if  I  turned  my  head,  an'  I  felt  as  if  I  could  n't 
bear  to.  An'  It  come  walkin',  walkin',  with 
out  takin'  any  steps  or  makin'  any  noise,  till 
It  come  right  up  'side  o'  me  an'  stood  still. 
I  did  n't  turn  round.  I  knew  I  must  n't.  I 
dunno  whether  It  touched  me  ;  I  dunno  whether 
It  said  anything  —  but  I  know  It  made  me  a 
new  creatur'.  I  knew  then  I  should  n't  be 
afraid  o'  things  no  more  —  nor  sorry.  I  found 
out  't  was  all  right.  '  I  'm  glad  I  'm  alive,'  I 
said.  'I'm  thankful!'  Seemed  to  me  I'd 
been  dead  for  the  last  twenty  year.  I  'd  come 
alive. 

"  An'  so  I  set  there  an'  held  my  breath,  for 
fear  'twould  go.     I  dunno  how  long,  but  the 


EXPERIENCE   OF  HANNAH   PRIME    211 

moon  riz  up  over  my  left  shoulder,  an'  the  sky 
begun  to  fade.  An*  then  it  come  over  me 
't  was  goin'.  I  knew  't  was  terrible  tender  of 
me,  an'  sorry,  an'  lovin',  an'  so  I  says,  '  Don't 
you  mind  ;  I  won't  forgit ! '  An'  then  It  went. 
But  that  broke  suthin',  an'  I  turned  an'  see  my 
own  shadder  on  the  grass  ;  an'  I  thought  I  see 
another,  'side  of  it.  Somehow  that  scairt  me, 
an'  I  jumped  up  an'  whipped  it  home  without 
lookin'  behind  me.  Now  that 's  my  experience," 
said  Hannah  Prime,  looking  her  neighbors  again 
in  the  face,  with  dauntless  eyes.  "  I  dunno 
what  't  was,  but  it 's  goin1  to  last.  I  ain't 
afraid  no  more,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  be.  There 
ain't  nuthin'  to  worry  about.  Everything 's 
bigger 'n  we  think."  She  folded  her  shawl 
more  closely  about  her  and  moved  toward  the 
door.  There  she  again  turned  to  her  neighbors. 

"Good-night !  "  she  said,  and  was  gone. 

They  sat  quite  still  until  the  tread  of  her 
feet  had  ceased  its  beating  on  the  dusty  road. 
Then,  by  one  consent,  they  rose  and  moved 
slowly  out.  There  was  no  prayer  that  night, 
and  "  Lord  dismiss  us  "  was  not  sung. 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH 

THE  neighborhood,  the  township,  and  the 
world  had  been  snowed  in.  Snow  drifted  the 
road  in  hills  and  hollows,  and  hung  in  little 
eddying  wreaths,  where  the  wind  took  it,  on 
the  pasture  slopes.  It  made  solid  banks  in  the 
dooryards,  and  buried  the  stone  walls  out  of 
sight.  The  lace  work  of  its  fantasy  became 
daintily  apparent  in  the  conceits  with  which  it 
broidered  over  all  the  common  objects  familiar 
in  homely  lives.  The  pump,  in  yards  where 
that  had  supplanted  the  old-fashioned  curb, 
wore  a  heavy  mob-cap.  The  vane  on  the  barn 
was  delicately  sifted  over,  and  the  top  of  every 
picket  in  the  high  front-yard  fence  had  a  fluffy 
peak.  But  it  was  chiefly  in  the  woods  that  the 
rapture  and  flavor  of  the  time  ran  riot  in  making 
beauty.  There  every  fir  branch  swayed  under 
a  tuft  of  white,  and  the  brown  refuse  of  the 
year  was  all  hidden  away. 

That  morning,  no  one  in  Tiverton  Hollow 
had  gone  out  of  the  house,  save  to  shovel  paths 
and  do  the  necessary  chores.  The  road  lay 
untouched  until  ten  o'clock,  when  a  selectman 
gave  notice  that  it  was  an  occasion  for  "  breakin' 
out,"  by  starting  with  his  team,  and  gathering 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  213 

oxen  by  the  way  until  a  conquering  procession 
ground  through  the  drifts,  the  men  shoveling 
at  intervals  where  the  snow  lay  deepest,  the 
oxen  walking  swayingly,  head  to  the  earth,  and 
the  faint  wreath  of  their  breath  ascending  and 
cooling  on  the  air.  It  was  "  high  times "  in 
Tiverton  Hollow  when  a  road  needed  opening  ; 
some  idea  of  the  old  primitive  way  of  battling 
with  the  untouched  forces  of  nature  roused  the 
people  to  an  exhilaration  dashed  by  no  uncer 
tainty  of  victory. 

By  afternoon,  the  excitement  had  quieted. 
The  men  had  come  in,  reddened  by  cold,  and 
eaten  their  noon  dinner  in  high  spirits,  retailing 
to  the  less  fortunate  women-folk  the  stories 
swapped  on  the  march.  Then,  as  one  man, 
they  succumbed  to  the  drowsiness  induced 
by  a  morning  of  wind  in  the  face,  and  sat  by 
the  stove  under  some  pretense  of  reading  the 
county  paper,  but  really  to  nod  and  doze, 
waking  only  to  put  another  stick  of  wood  on 
the  fire.  So  passed  all  the  day  before  Christ 
mas,  and  in  the  evening  the  shining  lamps  were 
lighted  (each  with  a  strip  of  red  flannel  in  the 
oil,  to  give  color),  and  the  neighborhood  rested 
in  the  tranquil  certainty  that  something  had 
really  come  to  pass,  and  that  their  communica 
tion  with  the  world  was  reestablished. 

Susan  Peavey  sat  by  the  fire,  knitting  on  a 
red  mitten,  and  the  young  schoolmaster  pre 
sided  over  the  other  hearth  corner,  reading 


214  TIVERTON   TALES 

very  hard,  at  intervals,  and  again  sinking  into 
a  drowsy  study  of  the  flames.  There  was  an 
impression  abroad  in  Tiverton  that  the  school 
master  was  going  to  be  somebody,  some  time. 
He  wrote  for  the  papers.  He  was  always 
receiving  through  the  mail  envelopes  marked 
"author's  proofs,"  which,  the  postmistress  said, 
indicated  that  he  was  an  author,  whatever  proofs 
might  be.  She  had  an  idea  they  might  have, 
something  to  do  with  photographs  ;  perhaps 
his  picture  was  going  into  a  book.  It  was  very 
well  understood  that  teaching  school  at  the 
Hollow,  at  seven  dollars  a  week,  was  an  inter 
lude  in  the  life  of  one  who  would  some  day 
write  a  spelling-book,  or  exercise  senatorial 
rights  at  Washington.  He  was  a  long-legged, 
pleasant  looking  youth,  with  a  pale  cheek,  dark 
eyes,  and  thick  black  hair,  one  lock  of  which, 
hanging  low  over  his  forehead,  he  twisted 
while  he  read.  He  kept  glancing  up  at  Miss 
Susan  and  smiling  at  her,  whenever  he  could 
look  away  from  his  book  and  the  fire,  and  she 
smiled  back.  At  last,  after  many  such  word 
less  messages,  he  spoke. 

"  What  lots  of  red  mittens  you  do  knit !  Do 
you  send  them  all  away  to  that  society  ? " 

Miss  Susan's  needles  clicked. 

"Every  one,"  said  she. 

She  was  a  tall,  large  woman,  well-knit,  with 
no  superfluous  flesh.  Her  head  was  finely  set, 
and  she  carried  it  with  a  simple  unconscious- 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  215 

ness  better  than  dignity.  Everybody  in  Tiver- 
ton  thought  it  had  been  a  great  cross  to  Susan 
Peavey  to  be  so  overgrown.  They  conceded 
that  it  was  a  mystery  she  had  not  turned  out 
"gorminV  But  that  was  because  Susan  had 
left  her  vanity  behind  with  early  youth,  in  the 
days  when,  all  legs  and  arms,  she  had  given  up 
the  idea  of  beauty.  Her  face  was  strong-fea 
tured,  overspread  by  a  healthy  color,  and  her 
eyes  looked  frankly  out,  as  if  assured  of  find 
ing  a  very  pleasant  world.  The  sick  always 
delighted  in  Susan's  nearness  ;  her  magnificent 
health  and  presence  were  like  a  supporting 
tide,  and  she  seemed  to  carry  outdoor  air  in  her 
very  garments.  The  schoolmaster  still  watched 
her.  She  rested  and  fascinated  him  at  once  by 
her  strength  and  homely  charm. 

"  I  shall  call  you  the  Orphans'  Friend,"  said 
he. 

She  laid  down  her  work. 

"  Don't  you  say  one  word,"  she  answered, 
with  an  air  of  abject  confession.  "  It  don't 
interest  me  a  mite !  I  give  because  it 's  my 
bounden  duty,  but  I  '11  be  whipped  if  I  want  to 
knit  warm  mittens  all  my  life,  an'  fill  poor 
barrels.  Sometimes  I  wisht  I  could  git  a  chance 
to  provide  folks  with  what  they  don't  need 
ruther  'n  what  they  do." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean,"  said  the 
schoolmaster.  "  Tell  me." 

Miss  Susan  was  looking  at  the  hearth.    A 


2i6  TIVERTON   TALES 

warmer  flush  than  that  of  firelight  alone  lay  on 
her  cheek.  She  bent  forward  and  threw  on  a 
pine  knot.  It  blazed  richly.  Then  she  drew 
the  cricket  more  securely  under  her  feet,  and 
settled  herself  to  gossip. 

"  Anybody  'd  think  I  'd  most  talked  myself 
out  sence  you  come  here  to  board,"  said  she, 
"  but  you  're  the  beatemest  for  tolin'  anybody 
on.  I  never  knew  I  had  so  much  to  say.  But 
there !  I  guess  we  all  have,  if  there 's  any 
body  't  wants  to  listen.  I  never  've  said  this  to 
a  livin'  soul,  an'  I  guess  it 's  sort  o'  heathenish 
to  think,  but  I  'm  tired  to  death  o'  nghtin' 
ag'inst  poverty,  poverty !  I  s'pose  it 's  there, 
fast  enough,  though  we  're  all  so  well  on  't  we 
don't  realize  it  ;  an'  I  'm  goin'  to  do  my  part, 
an'  be  glad  to,  while  I  'm  above  ground.  But  I 
guess  heaven  '11  be  a  spot  where  we  don't  give 
folks  what  they  need,  but  what  they  don't." 

"  There  is  something  in  your  Bible,"  began 
the  schoolmaster  hesitatingly,  "  about  a  box  of 
precious  ointment."  He  always  said  "your 
Bible,"  as  if  church  members  held  a  proprietary 
right. 

"  That 's  it !  "  replied  Miss  Susan,  brighten 
ing.  "  That 's  what  I  al'ays  thought.  Spill  it 
all  out,  I  say,  an'  make  the  world  smell  as  sweet 
as  honey.  My !  but  I  do  have  great  projicks 
set  tin'  here  by  the  fire  alone !  Great  projicks ! " 

"  Tell  me  some  !  " 

"  Well,  I  dunno  's  I  can,  all  of  a  piece,  so  to 


HONEY   AND    MYRRH  217 

speak  ;  but  when  it  gits  along  towards  eight 
o'clock,  an'  the  room's  all  simmerin',  an'  the 
moon  lays  out  on  the  snow,  it  does  seem  as  if 
we  made  a  pretty  poor  spec'  out  o'  life.  We 
don't  seem  to  have  no  color  in  it.  Why,  don't 
you  remember  '  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  '  ?  I 
guess  't  wouldn't  ha'  been  put  in  jest  that  way 
if  there  wa'n't  somethin'  in  it.  I  s'pose  he  had 
crowns  an'  rings  an'  purple  velvet  coats  an' 
brocade  satin  weskits,  an'  all  manner  o'  things. 
Sometimes  seems  as  I  could  see  him  walkin' 
straight  in  through  that  door  there."  She  was 
running  a  knitting  needle  back  and  forth 
through  her  ball  of  yarn  as  she  spoke,  without 
noticing  that  some  one  had  been  stamping  the 
snow  from  his  feet  on  the  doorstone  outside. 
The  door,  after  making  some  bluster  of  refusal, 
was  pushed  open,  and  on  the  heels  of  her 
speech  a  man  walked  in. 

"  My  land ! "  cried  Miss  Susan,  aghast.  Then 
she  and  the  schoolmaster,  by  one  accord,  began 
to  laugh. 

But  the  man  did  not  look  at  them  until  he 
had  scrupulously  wiped  his  feet  on  the  husk 
mat,  and  stamped  them  anew.  Then  he  turned 
down  the  legs  of  his  trousers,  and  carefully 
examined  the  lank  green  carpet-bag  he  had 
been  carrying. 

"  I  guess  I  trailed  it  through  some  o'  the 
drifts,"  he  remarked.  "  The  road 's  pretty 
narrer,  this  season  o'  the  year." 


218  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  You  give  us  a  real  start,"  said  Susan.  "  We 
thought  be  sure  't  was  Solomon,  an'  mebbe  the 
Queen  o'  Sheba  follerin'  arter.  Why,  Solon 
Slade,  you  ain't  walked  way  over  to  Tiverton 
Street !  " 

"  Yes,  I  have,"  asserted  Solon.  He  was  a 
slender,  sad-colored  man,  possibly  of  her  own 
age,  and  he  spoke  in  a  very  soft  voice.  He 
was  Susan's  widowed  brother-in-law,  and  the 
neighbors  said  he  was  clever,  but  hadn't  no 
more  spunk  'n  a  wet  rag. 

Susan  had  risen  and  laid  down  her  knitting. 
She  approached  the  table  and  rested  one  hand 
on  it,  a  hawk-like  brightness  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  you  got  in  that  bag  ?  "  asked  she. 

Solon  was  enjoying  his  certainty  that  he  held 
the  key  to  the  situation. 

"  I  got  a  mite  o'  cheese,"  he  answered,  ap 
proaching  the  fire  and  spreading  his  hands  to 
the  blaze. 

"  You  got  anything  else  ?  Now,  Solon,  don't 
you  keep  me  here  on  tenter-hooks !  You  got 
a  letter?" 

"Well,"  said  Solon,  "I  thought  I  might  as 
well  look  into  the  post-office  an'  see." 

"  You  thought  so !  You  went  a-purpose ! 
An'  you  walked  because  you  al'ays  was  half 
shackled  about  takin'  horses  out  in  bad  goin'. 
You  hand  me  over  that  letter  !  " 

Solon  approached  the  table,  a  furtive  twinkle 
in  his  blue  eyes.  He  lifted  the  bag  and  opened 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  219 

it  slowly.  First,  he  took  out  a  wedge-shaped 
package. 

"  That 's  the  cheese,"  said  he.     "  Herb." 

"My  land!"  ejaculated  Miss  Susan,  while 
the  schoolmaster  looked  on  and  smiled.  "  You 
better  ha'  come  to  me  for  cheese.  I  Ve  got  a 
plenty,  tansy  an'  sage,  an'  you  know  it.  I  see 
it !  There  !  you  gi'  me  holt  on  't !  "  It  was 
a  fugitive  white  gleam  in  the  bottom  of  the 
bag ;  she  pounced  upon  it  and  brought  up  a 
letter.  Midway  in  the  act  of  tearing  it  open, 
she  paused  and  looked  at  Solon  with  droll 
entreaty.  "  It 's  your  letter,  by  rights  !  "  she 
added  tentatively. 

"  Law!  "  said  he,  "I  dunno  who  it's  directed 
to,  but  I  guess  it 's  as  much  your'n  as  any 
body's." 

Miss  Susan  spread  open  the  sheets  with  an 
air  of  breathless  delight.  She  bent  nearer  the 
lamp.  " '  Dear  father  and  auntie,'  "  she  began. 

"There!  "  remarked  Solon,  in  quiet  satisfac 
tion,  still  warming  his  hands  at  the  blaze. 
"There  !  you  see  'tis  to  both." 

"  My !  how  she  does  run  the  words  together ! 
Here !  "  Miss  Susan  passed  it  to  the  school 
master.  "  You  read  it.  It 's  from  Jenny.  You 
know  she 's  away  to  school,  an'  we  did  n't 
think  best  for  her  to  come  home  Christmas.  I 
knew  she  'd  write  for  Christmas.  Solon,  I  told 
you  so  !  " 

The  schoolmaster  took  the  letter,  and  read  it 


220  TIVERTON   TALES 

aloud.  It  was  a  simple  little  message,  full  of 
contentment  and  love  and  a  girl's  new  delight 
in  life.  When  he  had  finished,  the  two  older 
people  busied  themselves  a  moment  without 
speaking,  Solon  in  picking  up  a  chip  from  the 
hearth,  and  Susan  in  mechanically  smoothing 
the  mammoth  roses  on  the  side  of  the  carpet 
bag. 

"  Well,  I  'most  wish  we  'd  had  her  come 
home,"  said  he  at  last,  clearing  his  throat. 

"  No,  you  don't  either,"  answered  Miss 
Susan  promptly.  "Not  with  this  snow,  an1 
comin'  out  of  a  house  where  it 's  het  up,  into 
cold  beds  an'  all.  Now  I  'm  goin'  to  git  you  a 
mite  o'  pie  an'  some  hot  tea." 

She  set  forth  a  prodigal  supper  on  a  leaf  of 
the  table,  and  Solon  silently  worked  his  will 
upon  it,  the  schoolmaster  eating  a  bit  for  com 
pany.  Then  Solon  took  his  way  home  to  the 
house  across  the  yard,  and  she  watched  at  the 
window  till  she  saw  the  light  blaze  up  through 
his  panes.  That  accomplished,  she  turned  back 
with  a  long  breath  and  began  clearing  up. 

"  I  'm  worried  to  death  to  have  him  over 
there  all  by  himself,"  said  she.  "S'pose  he 
should  be  sick  in  the  night !  " 

"  You  'd  go  over,"  answered  the  school 
master  easily. 

"  Well,  s'pose  he  could  n't  git  me  no  word  ? " 

"  Oh,  you  'd  know  it !     You  're  that  sort." 

Miss  Susan  laughed  softly,  and  so  seemed 


HONEY   AND   MYRRH  221 

to  put  away  her  recurrent  anxiety.  She  came 
back  to  her  knitting. 

"  How  long  has  his  wife  been  dead  ?  "  asked 
the  schoolmaster. 

"Two  year.  He  an'  Jenny  got  along  real 
well  together,  but  sence  September,  when  she 
went  away,  I  guess  he  's  found  it  pretty  dull 
pickin'.  I  do  all  I  can,  but  land  !  't  ain't  like 
havin'  a  woman  in  the  house  from  sunrise  to 
set." 

"There's  nothing  like  that,"  agreed  the 
wise  young  schoolmaster.  "  Now  let 's  play 
some  more.  Let 's  plan  what  we  'd  like  to  do 
to-morrow  for  all  the  folks  we  know,  and  let 's 
not  give  them  a  thing  they  need,  but  just  the 
ones  they  'd  like." 

Miss  Susan  put  down  her  knitting  again. 
She  never  could  talk  to  the  schoolmaster  and 
keep  at  work.  It  made  her  dreamy,  exactly  as 
it  did  to  sit  in  the  hot  summer  sunshine,  with 
the  droning  of  bees  in  the  air. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "there  's  old  Ann  Wheeler 
that  lives  over  on  the  turnpike.  She  don't 
want  for  nothin',  but  she  keeps  her  things 
packed  away  up  garret,  an'  lives  like  a  pig." 

"  '  Sold  her  bed  and  lay  in  the  straw.' ' 

"  That 's  it,  on'y  she  won't  sell  nuthin'.  I  'd 
give  her  a  house  all  winders,  so  't  she  could  n't 
help  lookin'  out,  an'  velvet  carpets  't  she  'd  go? 
to  walk  on." 

"  Well,  there  's  Cap'n   Ben.    The  boys  say 


222  TIVERTON   TALES 

he's  out  of  his  head  a  good  deal  now;  he 
fancies  himself  at  sea  and  in  foreign  countries." 

"  Yes,  so  they  say.  Well,  I  'd  let  him  set 
down  a  spell  in  Solomon's  temple  an'  look 
round  him.  My  sake  !  do  you  remember  about 
the  temple  ?  Why,  the  nails  was  all  gold. 
Don't  you  wish  we  'd  lived  in  them  times  ?  Jest 
think  about  the  wood  they  had  —  cedars  o' 
Lebanon  an'  fir-trees.  You  know  how  he  set 
folks  to  workin'  in  the  mountains.  I  've  al'ays 
thought  I  'd  like  to  ben  up  on  them  mountains 
an'  heard  the  axes  ringin'  an'  listened  to  the 
talk.  An'  then  there  was  pomegranates  an' 
cherubim,  an'  as  for  silver  an'  gold,  they  were 
as  common  as  dirt.  When  I  was  a  little  girl, 
I  learnt  them  chapters,  an'  sometimes  now, 
when  I  'm  settin'  by  the  fire,  I  say  over  that 
verse  about  the  '  man  of  Tyre,  skillful  to  work 
in  gold,  and  in  silver,  in  brass,  in  iron,  in  stone, 
and  in  timber,  in  purple,  in  blue,  and  in  fine 
linen,  and  in  crimson.'  My !  ain't  it  rich  ? " 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  surfeited  enjoy 
ment.  The  schoolmaster's  eyes  burned  under 
his  heavy  brows. 

"  Then  things  smelt  so  good  in  them  days," 
continued  Miss  Susan.  "  They  had  myrrh  an' 
frankincense,  an'  I  dun  no  what  all.  I  never 
make  my  mincemeat  'thout  snuffm'  at  the  spice- 
box  to  freshen  up  my  mind.  No  matter  where 
I  start,  some  way  or  another  I  al'ays  git  back 
to  Solomon.  Well,  if  Cap'n  Ben  wants  to  see 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  223 

foreign  countries,  I  guess  he  'd  be  glad  to  set 
a  spell  in  the  temple.  Le's  have  on  another 
stick  —  that  big  one  there  by  you.  My  !  it 's 
the  night  afore  Christmas,  ain't  it  ?  Seems  if 
I  could  n't  git  a  big  enough  blaze.  Pile  it  on. 
I  guess  I  'd  as  soon  set  the  chimbly  afire  as 
not !  " 

There  was  something  overflowing  and  heady 
in  her  enjoyment.  It  exhilarated  the  school 
master,  and  he  lavished  stick  after  stick  on  the 
ravening  flames.  The  maple  hardened  into 
coals  brighter  than  its  own  panoply  of  autumn  ; 
the  delicate  bark  of  the  birch  flared  up  and 
perished. 

"  Miss  Susan,"  said  he,  "  don't  you  want  to 
see  all  the  people  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno  !  I  'd  full  as  lieves  set  here  an* 
think  about  'em.  I  can  fix  'em  up  full  as  well 
in  my  mind,  an'  perhaps  they  suit  me  better  'n 
if  I  could  see  'em.  Sometimes  I  set  'em  walkin' 
through  this  kitchen,  kings  an'  queens  an'  all. 
My !  how  they  do  shine,  all  over  precious 
stones.  I  never  see  a  di'mond,  but  I  guess  I 
know  pretty  well  how  't  would  look." 

"  Suppose  we  could  give  a  Christmas  dinner, 

—  what  should  we  have  ?  " 

"  We  'd  have  oxen  roasted  whole,  an'  honey 

—  an'  —  but  that 's  as  fur  as  I  can  git." 

The  schoolmaster  had  a  treasury  of  which 
she  had  never  learned,  and  he  said  music 
ally:— 


224  TIVERTON   TALES 

.  .  .  " ' a  heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucid  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon.' " 

"  Yes,  that  has  a  real  nice  sound.  It  ain't 
like  the  Bible,  but  it 's  nice." 

They  sat  and  dreamed  and  the  fire  flared 
up  into  living  arabesques  and  burnt  blue  in 
corners.  A  stick  parted  and  fell  into  ash,  and 
Miss  Susan  came  awake.  She  had  the  air  of 
rousing  herself  with  vigor. 

"  There  !  "  said  she,  "  sometimes  I  think  it 's 
most  sinful  to  make  believe,  it 's  so  hard  to  wake 
yourself  up.  Arter  all  this,  I  dunno  but  when 
Solon  comes  for  the  pigs'  kittle  to-morrer,  I 
shall  ketch  myself  sayin',  '  Here's  the  frankin 
cense  ! '  " 

They  laughed  together,  and  the  schoolmas 
ter  rose  to  light  his  lamp.  He  paused  on  his 
way  to  the  stairs,  and  came  back  to  set  it  down 
again. 

"There  are  lots  of  people  we  haven't  pro 
vided  for,"  he  said.  "  We  have  n't  even  thought 
what  we  'd  give  Jenny." 

"  I  guess  Jenny  's  got  her  heart's  desire." 
Miss  Susan  nodded  sagely.  "  I  Ve  sent  her  a 
box,  with  a  fruit-cake  an'  pickles  and  cheese. 
She 'sail  fixed  out." 

The  schoolmaster  hesitated,  and  turned  the 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  225 

lamp-wick  up  and  down.  Then  he  spoke,  some 
what  timidly,  "  What  should  you  like  to  give 
her  father  ? " 

Miss  Susan's  face  clouded  with  that  dreamy 
look  which  sometimes  settled  upon  her  eyes 
like  haze. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  guess  whatever  I  should 
give  him  'd  only  make  him  laugh." 

"  Flowers  —  and  velvet  —  and  honey  —  and 
myrrh  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miss  Susan  with  gravity. 
"  Perhaps  it 's  jest  as  well  some  things  ain't  to 
be  had  at  the  shops." 

The  schoolmaster  took  up  his  lamp  again  and 
walked  to  the  door. 

"  We  never  can  tell,"  he  said.  "  It  may  be 
people  want  things  awfully  without  knowing  it. 
And  suppose  they  do  laugh  !  They  'd  better 
laugh  than  cry.  /  should  give  all  I  could. 
Good-night." 

Miss  Susan  banked  up  the  fire  and  set  her 
rising  of  dough  on  the  hearth,  after  a  discrim 
inating  peep  to  see  whether  it  was  getting  on 
too  fast.  After  that,  she  covered  her  plants  by 
the  window  and  blew  out  the  light,  so  that  the 
moon  should  have  its  way.  She  lingered  for 
a  moment,  looking  out  into  a  glittering  world. 
Not  a  breath  stirred.  The  visible  universe  lay 
asleep,  and  only  beauty  waked.  She  was  aching 
with  a  tumultuous  emotion  —  the  sense  that  life 
might  be  very  fair  and  shining,  if  we  only  dared 


226  TIVERTON   TALES 

to  shape  it  as  it  seems  to  us  in  dreams.  The 
loveliness  and  repose  of  the  earth  appealed  to 
her  like  a  challenge ;  they  alone  made  it  seem 
possible  for  her  also  to  dare. 

Next  morning,  she  rose  earlier  than  usual, 
while  the  schoolmaster  was  still  fast  bound  in 
sleep.  She  stayed  only  to  start  her  kitchen 
fire,  and  then  stood  motionless  a  moment  for 
a  last  decision.  The  great  white  day  was  be 
ginning  outside  with  slow,  unconscious  royalty. 
The  pale  winter  dawn  yielded  to  a  flush  of 
rose ;  nothing  in  the  aspect  of  the  heavens  con 
tradicted  the  promise  of  the  night  before.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  wonderful  day,  dramatic,  visible 
in  peace,  because,  on  that  morning,  all  the  world 
was  thinking  of  the  world  and  not  of  individual 
desires.  She  went  to  the  bureau  drawer  in 
the  sitting-room  and  looked,  a  little  scornfully, 
at  two  packages  hidden  there.  Handkerchiefs 
for  the  schoolmaster,  stockings  and  gloves  for 
Solon  !  Shutting  the  drawer,  she  hurried  out 
into  the  kitchen,  snatching  her  scissors  from 
the  work-basket  by  the  way.  She  gave  herself 
no  time  to  think,  but  went  up  to  her  flower- 
stand  and  began  to  cut  the  geranium  blossoms 
and  the  rose.  The  fuchsias  hung  in  flaunt 
ing  grace.  They  were  dearer  to  her  than  all. 
She  snipped  them  recklessly,  and  because  the 
bunch  seemed  meagre  still,  broke  the  top  from 
her  sweet-scented  geranium  and  disposed  the 
flowers  hastily  in  the  midst.  Her  posy  was 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  227 

sweet-smelling  and  good  ;  it  spoke  to  the  heart. 
Putting  a  shawl  over  her  head,  she  rolled  the 
flowers  in  her  apron  from  the  frost,  and  stepped 
out  into  the  brilliant  day.  The  little  cross- 
track  between  her  house  and  the  other  was 
snowed  up  ;  but  she  took  the  road  and,  hurry 
ing  between  banks  of  carven  whiteness,  went 
up  Solon's  path  to  the  side  door.  She  walked 
in  upon  him  where  he  was  standing  over  the 
kitchen  stove,  warming  his  hands  at  the  first 
blaze.  Susan's  cheeks  were  red  with  the  chal 
lenge  of  the  stinging  air,  but  she  had  the  look 
of  one  who,  living  by  a  larger  law,  has  banished 
the  foolishness  of  fear..  She  walked  straight 
up  to  him  and  proffered  him  her  flowers. 

"  Here,  Solon,"  she  said,  "  it 's  Christmas.  I 
brought  you  these." 

Solon  looked  at  her  and  at  them,  in  slow  sur 
prise.  He  put  out  both  hands  and  took  them 
awkwardly. 

"Well!"  he  said.     "Well!" 

Susan  was  smiling  at  him.  It  seemed  to  her 
at  that  moment  that  the  world  was  a  very  rich 
place,  because  you  may  take  all  you  want  and 
give  all  you  choose,  while  nobody  is  the  wiser. 

"Well,"  remarked  Solon  again,  "I  guess  I'll 
put  'em  into  water."  He  laid  them  down  on 
a  chair.  "  Susan,  do  you  remember  that  time 
I  walked  over  to  Pine  Hill  to  pick  you  some 
mayflowers,  when  you  was  gittin'  over  the  lung 
fever?" 


228  TIVERTON   TALES 

She  nodded. 

"Susan,"  said  he  desperately,  "what  if  I 
should  ask  you  to  forgit  old  scores  an'  begin  all 
over  ? " 

"  I  ain't  laid  up  anything,"  answered  Susan, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face  with  her  brilliant 
smile. 

"  There  's  suthin'  I  Ve  wanted  to  tell  ye,  this 
two  year.  I  never  s'posed  you  knew,  but  that 
night  I  kissed  your  sister  in  the  entry  an'  asked 
her,  I  thought  't  was  you." 

"  Yes,  I  knew  that  well  enough.  I  was  in 
the  buttery  and  heard  it  all.  There,  le's  not 
talk  about  it." 

Solon  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  But  will  you,  Susan  ? "  he  persisted.  "  Will 
you  ?  I  know  Jenny  'd  like  it." 

"I  guess  she  would,  too,"  said  Susan. 
"  There  !  we  don't  need  to  talk  no  further ! 
You  come  over  to  breakfast,  won't  you  ?  I  'm 
goin'  to  fry  chicken.  It 's  Christmas  mornin'." 
She  nodded  at  him  and  went  out,  walking  per 
haps  more  proudly  than  usual  down  the  shining 
path.  Solon,  regardless  of  his  cooling  kitchen, 
stood  at  the  door  and  watched  her.  Solon 
never  said  very  much,  but  he  felt  as  if  life  were 
beginning  all  over  again,  just  as  he  had  wished 
to  make  it  at  the  very  start.  He  forgot  his 
gray  hair  and  furrowed  face,  just  as  he  forgot 
the  cold  and  snow.  It  was  the  spring  of  the 
year. 


HONEY  AND   MYRRH  229 

When  Miss  Susan  entered  her  kitchen,  the 
schoolmaster  had  come  down  and  was  putting 
a  stick  of  wood  into  the  stove. 

"  Merry  Christmas  !  "  he  called,  "and  here's 
something  for  you." 

A  long  white  package  lay  on  the  table  at 
the  end  where  her  plate  was  always  set.  She 
opened  it  with  delicate  touches,  it  seemed  so 
precious. 

"  My  sake  !  "  said  she.  "  It 's  a  fan  !  "  She 
lifted  it  out,  and  the  fragrance  of  an  Eastern 
wood  filled  all  the  room.  She  swept  open  the 
feathers.  They  were  white  and  wonderful. 

"  It  was  never  used  except  by  one  very  beau 
tiful  woman,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  without 
looking  at  her.  "  She  was  a  good  deal  older 
than  I ;  but  somehow  she  seemed  to  belong 
to  me.  She  died,  and  I  thought  I  should  like 
to  have  you  keep  this." 

Susan  was  waving  it  back  and  forth  before 
her  face,  stirring  the  air  to  fragrance.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  dreams.  "  My  !  ain't  it  rich ! " 
she  murmured.  "  The  Queen  o'  Sheba  never 
had  no  better.  An'  Solon 's  comin'  over  to 
breakfast." 


A  SECOND  MARRIAGE 

AMELIA  PORTER  sat  by  her  great  open  fire 
place,  where  the  round,  consequential  black 
kettle  hung  from  the  crane,  and  breathed  out 
a  steamy  cloud  to  be  at  once  licked  up  and 
absorbed  by  the  heat  from  a  snatching  flame 
below.  It  was  exactly  a  year  and  a  day  since 
her  husband's  death,  and  she  had  packed  her 
self  away  in  his  own  corner  of  the  settle,  her 
hands  clasped  across  her  knees,  and  her  red- 
brown  eyes  brooding  on  the  nearer  embers. 
She  was  not  definitely  speculating  on  her  future, 
nor  had  she  any  heart  for  retracing  the  dull 
and  gentle  past.  She  had  simply  relaxed  hold 
on  her  mind  ;  and  so,  escaping  her,  it  had  gone 
wandering  off  into  shadowy  prophecies  of  the 
immediate  years.  For,  as  Amelia  had  been 
telling  herself  for  the  last  three  months,  since 
she  had  begun  to-  outgrow  the  habit  of  a  dual 
life,  she  was  not  old.  Whenever  she  looked  in 
the  glass,  she  could  not  help  noting  how  free 
from  wrinkles  her  swarthy  face  had  been  kept, 
and  that  the  line  of  her  mouth  was  still  scarlet 
over  white,  even  teeth.  Her  crisp  black  hair, 
curling  in  those  tight  fine  rolls  which  a  bashful 
admirer  had  once  commended  as  "  full  of  little 


A  SECOND   MARRIAGE  231 

jerks,"  showed  not  a  trace  of  gray.  All  this 
evidence  of  her  senses  read  her  a  fair  tale  of 
the  possibilities  of  the  morrow ;  and  without 
once  saying,  "  I  will  take  up  a  new  life,"  she 
did  tacitly  acknowledge  that  life  was  not  over. 

It  was  a  "snapping  cold"  night  of  early 
spring,  so  misplaced  as  to  bring  with  it  a  cer 
tain  dramatic  excitement.  The  roads  were  frozen 
hard,  and  shone  like  silver  in  the  ruts.  All 
day  sleds  had  gone  creaking  past,  set  to  that 
fine  groaning  which  belongs  to  the  music  of 
the  year.  The  drivers'  breath  ascended  in 
steam,  the  while  they  stamped  down  the  prob 
ability  of  freezing,  and  yelled  to  Buck  and 
Broad  until  that  inner  fervor  raised  them  one 
degree  in  warmth.  The  smoking  cattle  held 
their  noses  low,  and  swayed  beneath  the  yoke. 

Amelia,  shut  snugly  in  her  winter-tight  house, 
had  felt  the  power  of  the  day  without  sharing 
its  discomforts ;  and  her  eyes  deepened  and 
burned  with  a  sense  of  the  movement  and 
warmth  of  living.  To-night,  under  the  spell  of 
some  vague  expectancy,  she  had  sat  still  for  a 
long  time,  her  sewing  laid  aside  and  her  room 
scrupulously  in  order.  She  was  waiting  for 
what  was  not  to  be  acknowledged  even  to  her 
own  intimate  self.  But  as  the  clock  struck 
nine,  she  roused  herself,  and  shook  off  her 
mood  in  impatience  and  a  disappointment  which 
she  would  not  own.  She  looked  about  the 
room,  as  she  often  had  of  late,  and  began  to 


232  TIVERTON   TALES 

enumerate  its  possibilities  in  case  she  should 
desire  to  have  it  changed.  Amelia  never  went 
so  far  as  to  say  that  change  should  be ;  she 
only  felt  that  she  had  still  a  right  to  speculate 
upon  it,  as  she  had  done  for  many  years,  as 
a  form  of  harmless  enjoyment.  While  every 
other  house  in  the  neighborhood  had  gone  from 
the  consistently  good  to  the  prosperously  bad 
in  the  matter  of  refurnishing,  John  Porter  had 
kept  his  precisely  as  his  grandfather  had  left  it 
to  him.  Amelia  had  never  once  complained  ; 
she  had  observed  toward  her  husband  an  un 
failing  deference,  due,  she  felt,  to  his  twenty 
years'  seniority;  perhaps,  also,  it  stood  in  her 
own  mind  as  the  only  amends  she  could  offer 
him  for  having  married  him  without  love.  It 
was  her  father  who  made  the  match ;  and 
Amelia  had  succumbed,  not  through  the  obedi 
ence  claimed  by  parents  of  an  elder  day,  but 
from  hot  jealousy  and  the  pique  inevitably  born 
of  it.  Laurie  Morse  had  kept  the  singing- 
school  that  winter.  He  had  loved  Amelia; 
he  had  bound  himself  to  her  by  all  the  most 
holy  vows  sworn  from  aforetime,  and  then,  in 
some  wanton  exhibit  of  power  —  gone  home 
with  another  girl.  And  for  Amelia's  responsive 
throb  of  feminine  anger,  she  had  spent  fifteen 
years  of  sober  country  living  with  a  man  who 
had  wrapped  her  about  with  the  quiet  tender 
ness  of  a  strong  nature,  but  who  was  not  of  her 
own  generation  either  in  mind  or  in  habit ;  and 


A   SECOND    MARRIAGE  233 

Laurie  had  kept  a  music-store  in  Saltash,  seven 
miles  away,  and  remained  unmarried. 

Now  Amelia  looked  about  the  room,  and 
mentally  displaced  the  furniture,  as  she  had 
done  so  many  times  while  she  and  her  husband 
sat  there  together.  The  settle  could  be  taken 
to  the  attic.  She  had  not  the  heart  to  carry 
out  one  secret  resolve  indulged  in  moments  of 
impatient  bitterness,  —  to  split  it  up  for  fire 
wood.  But  it  could  at  least  be  exiled.  She 
would  have  a  good  cook-stove,  and  the  great 
fireplace  should  be  walled  up.  The  tin  kitchen, 
sitting  now  beside  the  hearth  in  shining  quaint- 
ness,  should  also  go  into  the  attic.  The  old 
clock  —  But  at  that  instant  the  clash  of  bells 
shivered  the  frosty  air,  and  Amelia  threw  her 
vain  imaginings  aside  like  a  garment,  and 
sprang  to  her  feet.  She  clasped  her  hands  in 
a  spontaneous  gesture  of  rapt  attention  ;  and 
when  the  sound  paused  at  her  gate,  with  one 
or  two  sweet,  lingering  clingles,  "  I  knew  it !  " 
she  said  aloud.  Yet  she  did  not  go  to  the 
window  to  look  into  the  moonlit  night.  Stand 
ing  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  she 
awaited  the  knock  which  was  not  long  in 
coming.  It  was  imperative,  insistent.  Amelia, 
who  had  a  spirit  responsive  to  the  dramatic 
exigencies  of  life,  felt  a  little  flush  spring  into 
her  face,  so  hot  that,  on  the  way  to  the  door, 
she  involuntarily  put  her  hand  to  her  cheek  and 
held  it  there.  The  door  came  open  grumblingly. 


$34  TIVERTON  TALES 

It  sagged  upon  the  hinges,  but,  well-used  to 
its  vagaries,  she  overcame  it  with  a  regardless 
haste. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  at  once,  to  the  man  on 
the  step.  "  It 's  cold.  Oh,  come  in  !  " 

He  stepped  inside  the  entry,  removing  his 
fur  cap,  and  disclosing  a  youthful  face  charged 
with  that  radiance  which  made  him,  at  thirty- 
five,  almost  the  counterpart  of  his  former  self. 
It  may  have  come  only  from  the  combination 
of  curly  brown  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  an  aspiring 
lift  of  the  chin,  but  it  always  seemed  to  mean 
a  great  deal  more.  In  the  kitchen,  he  threw  off 
his  heavy  coat,  while  Amelia,  bright-eyed  and 
breathing  quickly,  stood  by,  quite  silent.  Then 
he  looked  at  her. 

"  You  expected  me,  did  n't  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

A  warmer  color  surged  into  her  cheeks.  "  I 
did  n't  know,"  she  said  perversely. 

"  I  guess  you  did.  It 's  one  day  over  a  year. 
You  knew  I  'd  wait  a  year." 

"  It  ain't  a  year  over  the  services,"  said 
Amelia,  trying  to  keep  the  note  of  vital  expect 
ancy  out  of  her  voice.  "  It  won't  be  that  till 
Friday." 

"  Well,  Saturday  I  '11  come  again."  He  went 
over  to  the  fire  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to 
the  blaze.  "  Come  here,"  he  said  imperatively, 
"while  I  talk  to  you." 

Amelia  stepped  forward  obediently,  like  a 
good  little  child.  The  old  fascination  was  still 


A  SECOND   MARRIAGE  235 

as  dominant  as  at  its  birth,  sixteen  years  ago. 
She  realized,  with  a  strong,  splendid  sense  of 
the  eternity  of  things,  that  always,  even  while 
it  would  have  been  treason  to  recognize  it,  she 
had  known  how  ready  it  was  to  rise  and  live 
again.  All  through  her  married  years,  she  had 
sternly  drugged  it  and  kept  it  sleeping.  Now 
it  had  a  right  to  breathe,  and  she  gloried  in  it. 

"  I  said  to  myself  I  would  n't  come  to-day," 
went  on  Laurie,  without  looking  at  her.  A 
new  and  excited  note  had  come  into  his  voice, 
responsive  to  her  own.  He  gazed  down  at  the 
fire,  musing  the  while  he  spoke.  "  Then  I 
found  I  could  n't  help  it.  That 's  why  I  'm  so 
late.  I  stayed  in  the  shop  till  seven,  and  some 
fellows  come  in  and  wanted  me  to  play.  I 
took  up  the  fiddle,  and  begun.  But  I  had  n't 
more  'n  drew  a  note  before  I  laid  it  down  and 
put  for  the  door.  '  Dick,  you  keep  shop,'  says 
I.  And  I  harnessed  up,  and  drove  like  the 
devil." 

Amelia  felt  warm  with  life  and  hope;  she 
was  taking  up  her  youth  just  where  the  story 
ended. 

"  You  ain't  stopped  swearin'  yet !  "  she  re 
marked,  with  a  little  excited  laugh.  Then,  from 
an  undercurrent  of  exhilaration,  it  occurred  to 
her  that  she  had  never  laughed  so  in  all  these 
years. 

"Well,"  said  Laurie  abruptly,  turning  upon 
her,  "  how  am  I  goin'  to  start  out  ?  Shall  we 


236  TIVERTON   TALES 

hark  back  to  old  scores?  I  know  what  come 
between  us.  So  do  you.  Have  we  got  to  talk 
it  out,  or  can  we  begin  now  ?  " 

"  Begin  now,"  replied  Amelia  faintly.  Her 
breath  choked  her.  He  stretched  out  his  arms 
to  her  in  sudden  passion.  His  hands  touched 
her  sleeves  and,  with  an  answering  rapidity  of 
motion,  she  drew  back.  She  shrank  within 
herself,  and  her  face  gathered  a  look  of  fright. 
"  No !  no  !  no  !  "  she  cried  strenuously. 

His  arms  fell  at  his  sides,  and  he  looked  at 
her  in  amazement. 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Amelia  had  retreated,  until  she  stood  now 
with  one  hand  on  the  table.  She  could  not 
look  at  him,  and  when  she  answered,  her  voice 
shook. 

"  There  's  nothin'  the  matter,"  she  answered. 
"  Only  you  must  n't  — yet." 

A  shade  of  relief  passed  over  his  face,  and 
he  smiled. 

"  There,  there !  "  he  said,  "  never  you  mind. 
I  understand.  But  if  I  come  over  the  last  of 
the  week,  I  guess  it  will  be  different.  Won't 
it  be  different,  Milly  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  owned,  with  a  little  sob  in  her 
throat,  "  it  will  be  different." 

Thrown  out  of  his  niche  of  easy  friendliness 
with  circumstance,  he  stood  there  in  irritated 
consciousness  that  here  was  some  subtile  barrier 
which  he  had  not  foreseen.  Ever  since  John 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  237 

Porter's  death,  there  had  been  strengthening  in 
him  a  joyous  sense  that  Milly's  life  and  his 
own  must  have  been  running  parallel  all  this 
time,  and  that  it  needed  only  a  little  widening 
of  channels  to  make  them  join.  His  was  no 
crass  certainty  of  finding  her  ready  to  drop  into 
his  hand ;  it  was  rather  a  childlike,  warm 
hearted  faith  in  the  permanence  of  her  affection 
for  him,  and  perhaps,  too,  a  shrewd  estimate  of 
his  own  lingering  youth  compared  with  John 
Porter's  furrowed  face  and  his  fifty-five  years. 
But  now,  with  this  new  whiffling  of  the  wind, 
he  could  only  stand  rebuffed  and  recognize  his 
own  perplexity. 

"  You  do  care,  don't  you,  Milly  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  boy's  frank  ardor.  "You  want  me  to 
come  again  ? " 

All  her  own  delight  in  youth  and  the  warm 
naturalness  of  life  had  rushed  back  upon  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  eagerly.  "  I  '11  tell 
you  the  truth.  I  always  did  tell  you  the  truth. 
I  do  want  you  to  come." 

"  But  you  don't  want  me  to-night ! "  He 
lifted  his  brows,  pursing  his  lips  whimsically ; 
and  Amelia  laughed. 

"  No,"  said  she,  with  a  little  defiant  move 
ment  of  her  own  crisp  head,  "  I  don't  know  as 
I  do  want  you  to-night  !  " 

Laurie  shook  himself  into  his  coat.  "  Well," 
he  said,  on  his  way  to  the  door,  "  I  '11  be  round 
Saturday,  whether  or  no.  And  Milly,"  he  added 


238  TIVERTON   TALES 

significantly,  his  hand  on  the  latch,  "you've 
got  to  like  me  then  !  " 

Amelia  laughed.  "  I  guess  there  won't  be 
no  trouble  !  "  she  called  after  him  daringly. 

She  stood  there  in  the  biting  wind,  while  he 
•uncovered  the  horse  and  drove  away.  Then  she 
went  shaking  back  to  her  fire  ;  but  it  was  not  alto 
gether  from  cold.  The  sense  of  the  consistency 
of  love  and  youth,  the  fine  justice  with  which 
nature  was  paying  an  old  debt,  had  raised  her 
to  a  stature  above  her  own.  She  stood  there 
under  the  mantel,  and  held  by  it  while  she 
trembled.  For  the  first  time,  her  husband  had 
gone  utterly  out  of  her  life.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  not  been. 

"  Saturday  !  "  she  said  to  herself.  "  Saturday ! 
Three  days  till  then  !  " 

Next  morning,  the  spring  asserted  itself,  — 
there  came  a  whiff  of  wind  from  the  south  and 
a  feeling  of  thaw.  The  sled-runners  began  to 
cut  through  to  the  frozen  ground,  and  about 
the  tree-trunks,  where  thin  crusts  of  ice  were 
sparkling,  came  a  faint  musical  sound  of  trick 
ling  drops.  The  sun  was  regnant,  and  little 
brown  birds  flew  cheerily  over  the  snow  and 
talked  of  nests. 

Amelia  finished  her  housework  by  nine 
^'clock,  and  then  sat  down  in  her  low  rocker  by 
the  south  window,  sewing  in  thrifty  haste.  The 
sun  fell  hotly  through  the  panes,  and  when  she 
looked  up,  the  glare  met  her  eyes.  She  seemed 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  239 

to  be  sitting  in  a  golden  shower,  and  she  liked 
it.  No  sunlight  ever  made  her  blink,  or  screw 
her  face  into  wrinkles.  She  throve  in  it  like 
a  rose-tree.  At  ten  o'clock,  one  of  the  slow- 
moving  sleds,  out  that  day  in  premonition  of 
a  "  spell  o'  weather,"  swung  laboriously  into  her 
yard  and  ground  its  way  up  to  the  side-door. 
The  sled  was  empty,  save  for  a  rocking-chair 
where  sat  an  enormous  woman  enveloped  in 
shawls,  her  broad  face  surrounded  by  a  pumpkin 
hood.  Her  dark  brown  front  came  low  over 
her  forehead,  and  she  wore  spectacles  with  wide 
bows,  which  gave  her  an  added  expression  of 
benevolence.  She  waved  a  mittened  hand  to 
Amelia  when  their  eyes  met,  and  her  heavy 
face  broke  up  into  smiles. 

"  Here  I  be !  "  she  called  in  a  thick,  gurgling 
voice,  as  Amelia  hastened  out,  her  apron  thrown 
over  her  head.  "  Did  n't  expect  me,  did  ye  ?  No 
body  looks  for  an  old  rheumatic  creatur'.  She 's 
more  out  o'  the  runnin'  'n  a  last  year's  bird's- 
nest." 

"  Why,  aunt  Ann !  "  cried  Amelia,  in  unmis 
takable  joy.  "  I  'm  tickled  to  death  to  see  you. 
Here,  Amos,  I  '11  help  get  her  out." 

The  driver,  a  short,  thick-set  man  of  neutral, 
ashy  tints  and  a  sprinkling  of  hair  and  beard, 
trudged  round  the  oxen  and  drew  the  rocking- 
chair  forward  without  a  word.  He  never  once 
looked  in  Amelia's  direction,  and  she  seemed 
not  to  expect  it ;  but  he  had  scarcely  laid  hold 
of  the  chair  when  aunt  Ann  broke  forth  :  — 


240  TIVERTON   TALES 

"Now,  Amos,  ain't  you  goin'  to  take  no 
notice  of  'Melia,  no  more  'n  if  she  wa'n't  here  ? 
She  ain't  a  bump  on  a  log,  nor  you  a  born 
fool." 

Amos  at  once  relinquished  his  sway  over  the 
chair,  and  stood  looking  abstractedly  at  the 
oxen,  who,  with  their  heads  low,  had  already 
fallen  into  that  species  of  day-dream  whereby 
they  compensate  themselves  for  human  tyranny. 
They  were  waiting  for  Amos,  and  Amos,  in 
obedience  to  some  inward  resolve,  waited  for 
commotion  to  cease. 

"  If  ever  I  was  ashamed,  I  be  now  !  "  con 
tinued  aunt  Ann,  still  with  an  expression  of 
settled  good -nature,  and  in  a  voice  all  jollity 
though  raised  conscientiously  to  a  scolding 
pitch.  "  To  think  I  should  bring  such  a  crea- 
tur'  into  the  world,  an'  set  by  to  see  him  treat 
his  own  relations  like  the  dirt  under  his  feet !  " 

Amelia  laughed.  She  was  exhilarated  by 
the  prospect  of  company,  and  this  domestic 
whirlpool  had  amused  her  from  of  old. 

"  Law,  aunt  Ann,"  she  said,  "you  let  Amos 
alone.  He  and  I  are  old  cronies.  We  under 
stand  one  another.  Here,  Amos,  catch  hold  ! 
We  shall  all  get  our  deaths  out  here,  if  we 
don't  do  nothin'  but  stand  still  and  squabble." 

The  immovable  Amos  had  only  been  await 
ing  his  cue.  He  lifted  the  laden  chair  with 
perfect  ease  to  one  of  the  piazza  steps,  and 
then  to  another ;  when  it  had  reached  the  top- 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  241 

most  level,  he  dragged  it  over  the  sill  into  the 
kitchen,  and,  leaving  his  mother  sitting  in  colos 
sal  triumph  by  the  fire,  turned  about  and  took 
his  silent  way  to  the  outer  world. 

"  Amos,"  called  aunt  Ann,  "  do  you  mean  to 
say  you  're  goin'  to  walk  out  o'  this  house  with 
out  speakin'  a  civil  word  to  anybody  ?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  ? " 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  nothin',"  confided 
Amos  to  his  worsted  muffler,  as  he  took  up  his 
goad,  and  began  backing  the  oxen  round. 

Undisturbed  and  not  at  all  daunted  by  a  reply 
for  which  she  had  not  even  listened,  aunt  Ann 
raised  her  voice  in  cheerful  response :  "  Well, 
you  be  along  'tween  three  an'  four,  an'  you  '11 
find  me  ready." 

"  Mercy,  aunt  Ann  !  "  said  Amelia,  beginning 
to  unwind  the  visitor's  wraps,  "what  makes  you 
keep  houndin'  Amos  that  way  ?  If  he  has  n't 
spoke  for  thirty-five  years,  it  ain't  likely  he 's 
goin'  to  begin  now." 

Aunt  Ann  was  looking  about  her  with  an 
expression  of  beaming  delight  in  unfamiliar  sur 
roundings.  She  laughed  a  rich,  unctuous  laugh, 
and  stretched  her  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"Law,"  she  said  contentedly,  "of  course  it 
ain't  goin'  to  do  no  good.  Who  ever  thought 
't  would  ?  But  I  've  been  at  that  boy  all  these 
years  to  make  him  like  other  folks,  an'  I  ain't 
goin'  to  stop  now.  He  never  shall  say  his  own 
mother  did  n't  know  her  duty  towards  him, 


242  TIVERTON   TALES 

Well,  'Melia,  you  air  kind  o'  snug  here,  arter  all ! 
Here,  you  hand  me  my  bag,  an'  I  '11  knit  a 
stitch.  I  ain't  a  mite  cold." 

Amelia  was  bustling  about  the  fire,  her  mind 
full  of  the  possibilities  of  a  company  dinner. 

"  How 's  your  limbs  ? "  she  asked,  while  aunt 
Ann  drew  out  a  long  stocking,  and  began  to 
knit  with  an  amazing  rapidity  of  which  her  fat 
fingers  gave  no  promise. 

"Well,  I  ain't  allowed  to  forgit  'em  very 
often,"  she  replied  comfortably.  "Rheumatiz 
is  my  cross,  an'  I  've  got  to  bear  it.  Sometimes 
I  wish  't  had  gone  into  my  hands  ruther  'n  my 
feet,  an'  I  could  ha'  got  round.  But  there !  if 
't  ain't  one  thing,  it  's  another.  Mis'  Eben 
Smith  's  got  eight  young  ones  down  with  the 
whoopin'-cough.  Amos  dragged  me  over  there 
yisterday ;  an'  when  I  heerd  'em  try  in'  to  see 
which  could  bark  the  loudest,  I  says,  '  Give  me 
the  peace  o'  Jerusalem  in  my  own  house,  even 
if  I  don't  stir  a  step  for  the  next  five  year  no 
more  'n  I  have  for  the  last.'  I  dunno  what 't 
would  be  if  I  had  n't  a  darter.  I  Ve  been  greatly 
blessed." 

The  talk  went  on  in  pleasant  ripples,  while 
Amelia  moved  back  and  forth  from  pantry  to 
table.  She  brought  out  the  mixing-board,  and 
began  to  put  her  bread  in  the  pans,  while  the 
tin  kitchen  stood  in  readiness  by  the  hearth. 
The  sunshine  flooded  all  the  room,  and  lay  in 
solently  on  the  paling  fire ;  the  Maltese  cat  sat 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  243 

in  the  broadest  shaft  of  all,  and,  having  lunched 
from  her  full  saucer  in  the  corner,  made  her 
second  toilet  for  the  day. 

"'Melia,"  said  aunt  Ann  suddenly,  looking 
down  over  her  glasses  at  the  tin  kitchen,  "  ain't 
it  a  real  cross  to  bake  in  that  thing  ? " 

"  I  always  had  it  in  mind  to  buy  me  a  range," 
answered  Amelia  reservedly,  "  but  somehow  we 
never  got  to  it." 

"That's  the  only  thing  I  ever  had  ag'inst 
John.  He  was  as  grand  a  man  as  ever  was,  but 
he  did  set  everything  by  such  truck.  Don't 
turn  out  the  old  things,  I  say,  no  more  'n  the  old 
folks ;  but  when  it  comes  to  makin'  a  woman 
Stan'  quiddlin'  round  doin'  work  back  side  fore 
most,  that  beats  me." 

"  He  'd  have  got  me  a  stove  in  a  minute," 
burst  forth  Amelia  in  haste,  "only  he  never 
knew  I  wanted  it ! " 

"  More  fool  you  not  to  ha'  said  so ! "  com 
mented  aunt  Ann,  unwinding  her  ball.  "  Well, 
I  s'pose  he  would.  John  wa'n't  like  the  com 
mon  run  o'  men.  Great  strong  cr^atur*  he  was, 
but  there  was  suthin'  about  him  as  soft  as  a 
woman.  His  mother  used  to  say  his  eyes  'd 
fill  full  o'  tears  when  he  broke  up  a  settin'  hen. 
He  was  a  good  husband  to  you,  —  a  good  pro 
vider  an'  a  good  friend." 

Amelia  was  putting  down  her  bread  for  its 
last  rising,  and  her  face  flushed. 

"Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "he  was  good." 


244  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  But  there !  "  continued  aunt  Ann,  dismiss 
ing  all  lighter  considerations,  "  I  dunno  's  that 's 
any  reason  why  you  should  bake  in  a  tin 
kitchen,  nor  why  you  should  need  to  heat 
up  the  brick  oven  every  week,  when  't  was 
only  done  to  please  him,  an'  he  ain't  here  to 
know.  Now,  'Melia,  le's  see  what  you  could  do. 
When  you  got  the  range  in,  't  would  alter  this 
kitchen  all  over.  Why  don't  you  tear  down  that 
old-fashioned  mantelpiece  in  the  fore-room  ?  " 

"I  could  have  a  marble  one,"  responded 
Amelia  in  a  low  voice.  She  had  taken  her  sew 
ing  again,  and  she  bent  her  head  over  it  as  if 
she  were  ashamed.  A  flush  had  risen  in  her 
cheeks,  and  her  hand  trembled. 

"  Wide  marble !  real  low  down  ! "  confirmed 
aunt  Ann,  in  a  tone  of  triumph.  "  So  fur  as 
that  goes,  you  could  have  a  marble-top  table." 
She  laid  down  her  knitting,  and  looked  about 
her,  a  spark  of  excited  anticipation  in  her  eyes. 
All  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  urged  her  on  to 
arrange  and  rearrange,  in  pursuit  of  domestic 
perfection.  People  used  to  say,  in  her  nrvst 
married  days,  that  Ann  Doby  wasted  more  time 
in  planning  conveniences  about  her  house  than 
she  ever  saved  by  them  "  arter  she  got  'em." 
In  her  active  years,  she  was,  in  local  phrase, 
"a  driver."  Up  and  about  early  and  late,  she 
directed  and  managed  until  her  house  seemed 
to  be  a  humming  hive  of  industry  and  thrift. 
Yet  there  was  never  anything  too  urgent  in  that 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  245 

sway.  Her  beaming  good -humor  acted  as  a 
buffer  between  her  and  the  doers  of  her  will ; 
and  though  she  might  scold,  she  never  rasped 
and  irritated.  Nor  had  she  really  succumbed 
in  the  least  to  the  disease  which  had  practically 
disabled  her.  It  might  confine  her  to  a  chair 
and  render  her  dependent  upon  the  service  of 
others,  but  over  it,  also,  was  she  spiritual  victor. 
She  could  sit  in  her  kitchen  and  issue  orders ; 
and  her  daughter,  with  no  initiative  genius  of 
her  own,  had  all  aunt  Ann's  love  of  "  springin' 
to  it."  She  cherished,  besides,  a  worshipful  ad 
miration  for  her  mother  ;  so  that  she  asked  no 
more  than  to  act  as  the  humble  hand  under  that 
directing  head.  It  was  Amos  who  tacitly  re 
belled.  When  a  boy  in  school,  he  virtually  gave 
up  talking,  and  thereafter  opened  his  lips  only 
when  some  practical  exigency  was  to  be  rilled. 
But  once  did  he  vouchsafe  a  reason  for  that 
eccentricity.  It  was  in  his  fifteenth  year,  as 
aunt  Ann  remembered  well,  when  the  minister 
had  called  ;  and  Amos,  in  response  to  some  re 
mark  about  his  hope  of  salvation,  had  looked 
abstractedly  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  'd  be  ashamed,"  announced  aunt  Ann, 
after  the  minister  had  gone,  —  "  Amos,  I  would 
be  ashamed,  if  I  could  n't  open  my  head  to  a 
minister  o'  the  gospel !  " 

"  If  one  head  's  open  permanent  in  a  house,  I 
guess  that  fills  the  bill,"  said  Amos,  getting  up 
to  seek  the  woodpile.  "I  ain't  goin'  to  inter 
fere  with  nobody  else's  contract" 


246  TIVERTON   TALES 

His  mother  looked  after  him  with  gaping  lips, 
and,  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour,  spoke  no 
word. 

To-day  she  saw  before  her  an  alluring  field 
of  action ;  the  prospect  roused  within  her 
energies  never  incapable  of  responding  to  a 
spur. 

"  My  soul,  'Melia ! "  she  exclaimed,  looking 
about  the  kitchen  with  a  dominating  eye,  "  how 
I  should  like  to  git  hold  o'  this  house !  I  al'ays 
did  have  a  hankerin'  that  way,  an'  I  don't  mind 
tellin'  ye.  You  could  change  it  all  round  com 
plete." 

"  It 's  a  good  house,"  said  Amelia  evasively, 
taking  quick,  even  stitches,  but  listening  hun 
grily  to  the  voice  of  outside  temptation.  It 
seemed  to  confirm  all  the  long-suppressed  am 
bitions  of  her  own  heart. 

"  You  're  left  well  on  *t,"  continued  aunt  Ann, 
her  shrewd  blue  eyes  taking  on  a  speculative 
look.  "  I  'm  glad  you  sold  the  stock.  A  woman 
never  undertakes  man's  work  but  she  comes 
out  the  little  eend  o'  the  horn.  The  house  is 
enough,  if  you  keep  it  nice.  Now,  you  Ve  got 
that  money  laid  away,  an'  all  he  left  you  be 
sides.  You  could  live  in  the  village,  if  you  was 
a  mind  to." 

A  deep  flush  struck  suddenly  into  Amelia's 
cheek.  She  thought  of  Saltash  and  Laurie 
Morse. 

"I  don't  want  to  live  in  the  village,"  she 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  247 

said  sharply,  thus  reproving  her  own  errant 
mind.  "  I  like  my  home." 

"  Law,  yes,  of  course  ye  do,"  replied  aunt 
Ann  easily,  returning  to  her  knitting.  "  I  was 
only  spec'latin'.  The  land,  'Melia,  what  you 
doin'  of  ?  Repairin'  an  old  coat  ?  " 

Amelia  bent  lower  over  her  sewing.  "  'T  was 
his,"  she  answered  in  a  voice  almost  inaudible. 
"  I  put  a  patch  on  it  last  night  by  lamplight, 
and  when  daytime  come,  I  found  it  was  purple. 
So  I  'm  takin'  it  off,  and  puttin'  on  a  black  one 
to  match  the  stuff." 

"  Coin'  to  give  it  away  ?  " 

"  No,  I  ain't,"  returned  Amelia,  again  with  that 
sharp,  remonstrant  note  in  her  voice.  "  What 
makes  you  think  I  'd  do  such  a  thing  as  that  ?  " 

"  Law,  I  did  n't  mean  no  harm.  You  said 
you  was  repairin'  on  't,  —  that's  all." 

Amelia  was  ashamed  of  her  momentary  out 
break.  She  looked  up  and  smiled  sunnily. 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is  foolish,"  she  owned, — • 
"too  foolish  to  tell.  But  I  've  been  settin'  all 
his  clothes  in  order  to  lay  'em  aside  at  last.  I 
kind  o'  like  to  do  it." 

Aunt  Ann  wagged  her  head,  and  ran  a 
knitting-needle  up  under  her  cap  on  a  voyage 
of  discovery. 

"  You  think  so  now,"  she  said  wisely,  "  but 
you  '11  see  some  time  it 's  better  by  fur  to  give 
'em  away  while  ye  can.  The  time  never  '11 
come  when  it 's  any  easier.  My  soul,  'Melia, 


248  TIVERTON   TALES 

how  I  should  like  to  git  up  into  your  chambers ! 
It 's  six  year  now  sence  I  've  seen  'em." 

Amelia  laid  down  her  work  and  considered 
the  possibility. 

"  I  don't  know  how  in  the  world  I  could  h'ist 
you  up  there,"  she  remarked,  from  an  evident 
background  of  hospitable  good-will. 

"  H'ist  me  up  ?  I  guess  you  could  n't !  You  'd 
need  a  tackle  an'  falls.  Amos  has  had  to  come 
to  draggin'  me  round  by  degrees,  an'  I  don't  go 
off  the  lower  floor.  Be  them  chambers  jest  the 
same,  'Melia?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  're  just  the  same.  Everything 
is.  You  know  he  did  n't  like  changes." 

"  Blue  spread  on  the  west  room  bed  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Spinnin'-wheels  out  in  the  shed  chamber, 
where  his  gran'mother  Hooper  kep'  'em  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Say,  'Melia,  do  you  s'pose  that  little  still  's 
up  attic  he  used  to  have  such  a  royal  good 
time  with,  makin'  essences  ?  " 

Amelia's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  hot,  un 
manageable  tears. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  we  used  it  only  two 
summers  ago.  I  come  across  it  yesterday. 
Seemed  as  if  I  could  smell  the  peppermint  I 
brought  in  for  him  to  pick  over.  He  was  too 
sick  to  go  out  much  then." 

Aunt  Ann  had  laid  down  her  work  again, 
and  was  gazing  into  vistas  of  rich  enjoyment. 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  249 

"  I  '11  be  whipped  if  I  should  n  't  like  to  see 
that  little  still  !  " 

"  I  '11  go  up  and  bring  it  down  after  dinner," 
said  Amelia  soberly,  folding  her  work  and 
taking  off  her  thimble.  "I'd  just  as  soon  as 
not." 

All  through  the  dinner  hour  aunt  Ann  kept 
up  an  inspiring  stream  of  question  and  remi 
niscence. 

"  You  be  a  good  cook,  'Melia,  an'  no  mis 
take,"  she  remarked,  breaking  her  brown  hot 
biscuit.  "  This  your  same  kind  o'  bread,  made 
without  yeast  ? " 

"Yes,"  answered  Amelia,  pouring  the  tea. 
"  I  save  a  mite  over  from  the  last  risin'." 

Aunt  Ann  smelled  the  biscuit  critically. 
"Well,  it  makes  proper  nice  bread,"  she  said, 
"  but  seems  to  me  that  's  a  terrible  shif'less 
way  to  go  about  it.  However 'd  you  happen  to 
git  hold  on  't  ?  You  wa'n't  never  brought  up 
to  't." 

"  His  mother  used  to  make  it  so.  'T  was  no 
great  trouble,  and  't  would  have  worried  him  if 
I  'd  changed." 

When  the  lavender-sprigged  china  had  been 
washed  and  the  hearth  swept  up,  the  room  fell 
into  its  aspect  of  afternoon  repose.  The  cat, 
after  another  serious  ablution,  sprang  up  into  a 
chair  drawn  close  to  the  fireplace,  and  coiled 
herself  symmetrically  on  the  faded  patchwork 
cushion.  Amelia  stroked  her  in  passing.  She 


250  TIVERTON   TALES 

liked  to  see  puss  appropriate  that  chair;  her 
purr  from  it  renewed  the  message  of  domestic 
content. 

"  Now,"  said  Amelia,  "  I  '11  get  the  still." 

"  Bring  down  anything  else  that 's  ancient !  " 
called  aunt  Ann.  "We've  pretty  much  got 
fed  o'  such  things  over  t'  our  house,  but  I  kind 
o'  like  to  see  'em." 

When  Amelia  returned,  she  staggered  under  a 
miscellaneous  burden  :  the  still,  some  old  swifts 
for  winding  yarn,  and  a  pair  of  wool-cards. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know  so  much  about 
cardin'  wool  as  I  do,"  she  said,  in  some  triumph, 
regarding  the  cards  with  the  saddened  gaze  of 
one  who  recalls  an  occupation  never  to  be  re 
sumed.  "You  see,  you  dropped  all  such  work 
when  new  things  come  in.  I  kept  right  on 
because  he  wanted  me  to." 

Aunt  Ann  was  abundantly  interested  and 
amused. 

"  Well,  now,  if  ever ! "  she  repeated  over 
and  over  again.  "  If  this  don't  carry  me  back  ! 
Seems  if  I  could  hear  the  wheel  hummin'  an'* 
gramma  Balch  steppin'  back  an'  forth  as  stiddy 
as  a  clock.  It 's  been  a  good  while  sence  I  Ve 
thought  o'  such  old  days." 

"  If  it 's  old  days  you  want  "  —  began  Amelia, 
and  she  sped  upstairs  with  a  fresh  light  of 
resolution  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  returned,  —  so 
long  that  aunt  Ann  exhausted  the  still,  and 


A   SECOND    MARRIAGE  251 

turned  again  to  her  thrifty  knitting.  Then 
there  came  a  bumping  noise  on  the  stairs,  and 
Amelia's  shuffling  tread. 

"What  under  the  sun  be  you  doin'  of?" 
called  her  aunt,  listening,  with  her  head  on  one 
side.  "  Don't  you  fall,  'Melia  !  Whatever  't  is, 
I  can't  help  ye." 

But  the  stairway  door  yielded  to  pressure 
from  within  :  and  first  a  rim  of  wood  appeared, 
and  then  Amelia,  scarlet  and  breathless,  stag 
gering  under  a  spinning-wheel. 

"  Forever  !  "  ejaculated  aunt  Ann,  making 
one  futile  effort  to  rise,  like  some  cumbersome 
fowl  whose  wings  are  clipped.  "  My  land  alive  ! 
you  '11  break  a  blood-vessel,  an'  then  where  '11 
ye  be  ? " 

Amelia  triumphantly  drew  the  wheel  to  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  then  blew  upon  her 
dusty  hands  and  smoothed  her  tumbled  hair. 
She  took  off  her  apron  and  wiped  the  wheel 
with  it  rather  tenderly,  as  if  an  ordinary  duster 
would  not  do. 

"  There  !  "  she  said.  "  Here 's  some  rolls 
right  here  in  the  bedroom.  I  carded  them  my 
self,  but  I  never  expected  to  spin  any  more." 

She  adjusted  a  roll  to  the  spindle,  and,  quite 
forgetting  aunt  Ann,  began  stepping  back  and 
forth  in  a  rhythmical  march  of  feminine  sendee 
The  low  hum  of  her  spinning  filled  the  air,  an( 
she  seemed  to  be  wrapped  about  by  an  atmo 
sphere  of  remoteness  and  memory.  Even  aunt 


252  TIVERTON  TALES 

Ann  was  impressed  by  it ;  and  once,  beginning 
to  speak,  she  looked  at  Amelia's  face,  and 
stopped.  The  purring  silence  continued,  lulling 
all  lesser  energies  to  sleep,  until  Amelia,  paus 
ing  to  adjust  her  thread,  found  her  mood 
broken  by  actual  stillness,  and  gazed  about  her 
like  one  awakened  from  dreams. 

"  There !  "  she  said,  recalling  herself.  "  Ain't 
that  a  good  smooth  thread  ?  I  've  sold  lots  of 
yarn.  They  ask  for  it  in  Sudleigh." 

"'Tis  so!"  confirmed  aunt  Ann  cordially. 
"An'  you  've  al'ays  dyed  it  yourself,  too  !  " 

"  Yes,  a  good  blue ;  sometimes  tea-color. 
There,  now,  you  can't  say  you  ain't  heard  a 
spinnin'-wheel  once  more  !  " 

Amelia  moved  the  wheel  to  the  side  of  the 
room,  and  went  gravely  back  to  her  chair. 
Her  energy  had  fled,  leaving  her  hushed  and 
tremulous.  But  not  for  that  did  aunt  Ann 
relinquish  her  quest  for  the  betterment  of  the 
domestic  world.  Her  tongue  clicked  the  faster 
as  Amelia's  halted.  She  put  away  her  work 
altogether,  and  sat,  with  wagging  head  and 
eloquent  hands,  still  holding  forth  on  the 
changes  which  might  be  wrought  in  the  house : 
a  bay  window  here,  a  sofa  there,  new  chairs, 
tables,  and  furnishings.  Amelia's  mind  swam 
in  a  sea  of  green  rep,  and  she  found  herself 
looking  up  from  time  to  time  at  her  mellowed 
four  walls,  to  see  if  they  sparkled  in  desirable 
yet  somewhat  terrifying  gilt  paper. 


A  SECOND   MARRIAGE  253 

At  four  o'clock,  when  Amos  swung  into  the 
yard  with  the  oxen,  she  was  remorsefully  con 
scious  of  heaving  a  sigh  of  relief  ;  and  she  bade 
him  in  to  the  cup  of  tea  ready  for  him  by  the 
fire  with  a  sympathetic  sense  that  too  little  was 
made  of  Amos,  and  that  perhaps  only  she,  at 
that  moment,  understood  his  habitual  frame  of 
mind.  He  drank  his  tea  in  silence,  the  while 
aunt  Ann,  with  much  relish,  consumed  dough 
nuts  and  cheese,  having  spread  a  wide  hand 
kerchief  in  her  lap  to  catch  the  crumbs.  Amos 
never  varied  in  his  r61e  of  automaton  ;  and 
Amelia  talked  rapidly,  in  the  hope  of  protecting 
him  from  verbal  avalanches.  But  she  was  not  to 
succeed.  At  the  very  moment  of  parting,  aunt 
Ann,  enthroned  in  her  chair,  with  a  clogging 
stick  under  the  rockers,  called  a  halt,  just  as  the 
oxen  gave  their  tremulous  preparatory  heave. 

"  Amos !  "  cried  she,  "  I  '11  be  whipped  if 
you  've  spoke  one  word  to  'Melia  this  livelong 
day !  If  you  ain't  ashamed,  I  be !  If  you 
can't  speak,  I  can  !  " 

Amos  paused,  with  his  habitual  resignation 
to  circumstances,  but  Amelia  sped  forward  and 
clapped  him  cordially  on  the  arm ;  with  the 
other  hand,  she  dealt  one  of  the  oxen  a  futile 
blow. 

"  Huddup,  Bright !  "  she  called,  with  a  swift, 
smiling  look  at  Amos.  Even  in  kindness  she 
would  not  do  him  the  wrong  of  an  unnecessary 
word.  "  Good-by,  aunt  Ann  !  Come  again  ! " 


254  TIVERTON   TALES 

Amos  turned  half  about,  the  goad  over  his 
shoulder.  His  dull-seeming  eyes  had  opened 
to  a  gleam  of  human  feeling,  betraying  how 
bright  and  keen  they  were.  Some  hidden  spring 
had  been  touched,  though  only  they  would  tell 
its  story.  Amelia  thought  it  was  gratitude. 
And  then  aunt  Ann,  nodding  her  farewells  in 
assured  contentment  with  herself  and  all  the 
world,  was  drawn  slowly  out  of  the  yard. 

When  Amelia  went  indoors  and  warmed  her 
chilled  hands  at  the  fire,  the  silence  seemed 
to  her  benignant.  What  was  loneliness  before 
had  miraculously  translated  itself  into  peace. 
That  worldly  voice,  strangely  clothing  her  own 
longings  with  form  and  substance,  had  been 
stilled ;  only  the  clock,  rich  in  the  tranquillity 
of  age,  ticked  on,  and  the  cat  stretched  herself 
and  curled  up  again.  Amelia  sat  down  in  the 
waning  light  and  took  a  last  stitch  in  her  work  ; 
she  looked  the  coat  over  critically  with  an  artis 
tic  satisfaction,  and  then  hung  it  behind  the 
door  in  its  accustomed  place,  where  it  had 
remained  undisturbed  now  for  many  months. 
She  ate  soberly  and  sparingly  of  her  early  sup 
per,  and  then,  leaving  the  lamp  on  a  side-table, 
where  it  brought  out  great  shadows  in  the 
room,  she  took  a  little  cricket  and  sat  down  by 
the  fire.  There  she  had  mused  many  an  even 
ing  which  seemed  to  her  less  dull  than  the 
general  course  of  her  former  life,  while  her  hus 
band  occupied  the  hearthside  chair  and  told 


A   SECOND    MARRIAGE  255 

her  stories  of  the  war.  He  had  a  childlike 
clearness  and  simplicity  of  speech,  and  a  self- 
forgetful  habit  of  reminiscence.  The  war  was 
the  war  to  him,  not  a  theatre  for  boastful  indi 
vidual  action;  but  Amelia  remembered  now 
that  he  had  seemed  to  hold  heroic  proportions 
in  relation  to  that  immortal  past.  One  could 
hardly  bring  heroism  into  the  potato-field  and 
the  cow-house ;  but  after  this  lapse  of  time,  it 
began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  the  man  who  had 
fought  at  Gettysburg  and  the  man  who  marked 
out  for  her  the  narrow  rut  of  an  unchanging  ex 
istence  were  one  and  the  same.  And  as  if  the 
moment  had  come  for  an  expected  event,  she 
heard  again  the  jangling  of  bells  without,  and 
the  old  vivid  color  rushed  into  her  cheeks,  red 
dened  before  by  the  fire-shine.  It  was  as  though 
the  other  night  had  been  a  rehearsal,  and  as  if 
now  she  knew  what  was  coming.  Yet  she  only 
clasped  her  hands  more  tightly  about  her  knees 
and  waited,  the  while  her  heart  hurried  its 
time.  The  knocker  fell  twice,  with  a  resonant 
clang.  She  did  not  move.  It  beat  again,  the 
more  insistently.  Then  the  heavy  outer  door 
was  pushed  open,  and  Laurie  Morse  came  in, 
looking  exactly  as  she  knew  he  would  look  — 
half  angry,  wholly  excited,  and  dowered  with 
the  beauty  of  youth  recalled.  He  took  off  his 
cap  and  stood  before  her. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  come  ? "  he  asked  impera 
tively.     "  Why  did  n't  you  let  me  in  ? " 


256  TIVERTON   TALES 

The  old  wave  of  irresponsible  joy  rose  in  her 
at  his  presence ;  yet  it  was  now  not  so  much  a 
part  of  her  real  self  as  a  delight  in  some  influ 
ence  which  might  prove  foreign  to  her.  She 
answered  him,  as  she  was  always  impelled  to  do, 
dramatically,  as  if  he  gave  her  the  cue,  calling 
for  words  which  might  be  her  sincere  expression, 
and  might  not. 

"  If  you  wanted  it  enough,  you  could  get  in," 
she  said  perversely,  with  an  alluring  coquetry 
in  her  mien.  "The  door  was  unfastened." 

"  I  did  want  to  enough,"  he  responded.  A 
new  light  came  into  his  eyes.  He  held  out  his 
hands  toward  her.  "  Get  up  off  that  cricket ! " 
he  commanded.  "  Come  here  !  " 

Amelia  rose  with  a  swift,  feminine  motion, 
but  she  stepped  backward,  one  hand  upon  her 
heart.  She  thought  its  beating  could  be  heard. 

"  It  ain't  Saturday,"  she  whispered. 

"  No,  it  ain't.  But  I  could  n't  wait.  You  knew 
I  could  n't.  You  knew  I  'd  come  to-night." 

The  added  years  had  had  their  effect  on  him  ; 
possibly,  too,  there  had  been  growing  up  in  him 
the  strength  of  a  long  patience.  He  was  not 
an  heroic  type  of  man ;  but  noting  the  sudden 
wrinkles  in  his  face  and  the  firmness  of  his 
mouth,  Amelia  conceived  a  swift  respect  for 
him  which  she  had  never  felt  in  the  days  of 
their  youth. 

"  Am  I  goin'  to  stay,"  he  asked  sternly,  "  or 
•hall  I  go  home  ? " 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  257 

As  if  in  dramatic  accord  with  his  words,  the 
bells  jangled  loudly  at  the  gate.  Should  he  go 
or  stay  ? 

"I  suppose,"  said  Amelia  faintly,  "you're 
goin'  to  stay." 

Laurie  laid  down  his  cap,  and  pulled  off  his 
coat.  He  looked  about  impatiently,  and  then, 
moving  toward  the  nail  by  the  door,  he  lifted 
the  coat  to  place  it  over  that  other  one  hang 
ing  there.  Amelia  had  watched  him  absently, 
thinking  only,  with  a  hungry  anticipation,  how 
much  she  had  needed  him  ;  but  as  the  garment 
touched  her  husband's,  the  real  woman  burst 
through  the  husk  of  her  outer  self,  and  came  to 
life  with  an  intensity  that  was  pain.  She  sprang 
forward. 

"No!  no!"  she  cried,  the  words  ringing 
wildly  in  her  own  ears.  "  No  !  no  !  don't  you 
hang  it  there  !  Don't  you  !  don't  you  ! "  She 
swept  him  aside,  and  laid  her  hands  upon  the 
old  patched  garment  on  the  nail.  It  was  as  if 
they  blessed  it,  and  as  if  they  defended  it  also. 
Her  eyes  burned  with  the  horror  of  witnessing 
some  irrevocable  deed. 

Laurie  stepped  back  in  pure  surprise.  "  No, 
of  course  not,"  said  he.  "  I  '11  put  it  on  a  chair. 
Why,  what 's  the  matter,  Milly  ?  I  guess  you  're 
nervous.  Come  back  to  the  fire.  Here,  sit 
down  where  you  were,  and  let  's  talk." 

The  cat,  roused  by  a  commotion  which  was 
insulting  to  her  egotism,  jumped  down  from  the 


258  TIVERTON   TALES 

cushion,  stretched  into  a  fine  curve,  and  made 
a  silhouette  of  herself  in  a  corner  of  the  hearth. 
Amelia,  a  little  ashamed,  and  not  very  well  un 
derstanding  what  it  was  all  about,  came  back, 
with  shaking  limbs,  and  dropped  upon  the  set 
tle,  striving  now  to  remember  the  convention 
alities  of  saner  living.  Laurie  was  a  kind  man. 
At  this  moment,  he  thought  only  of  reassuring 
her.  He  drew  forward  the  chair  left  vacant  by 
the  cat,  and  beat  up  the  cushion. 

"There,"  said  he,  "  I  '11  take  this,  and  we  '11 
talk." 

Amelia  recovered  herself  with  a  spring.  She 
came  up  straight  and  tall,  a  concluded  resolution 
in  every  muscle.  She  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Don't  you  sit  there!"  said  she.  "Don't 
you ! " 

"Why,  Amelia!"  he  ejaculated,  in  a  vain 
perplexity.  "  Why,  Milly !  " 

She  moved  the  chair  back  out  of  his  grasp, 
and  turned  to  him  again. 

"  I  understand  it  now,"  she  went  on  rapidly. 
"  I  know  just  what  I  feel  and  think,  and  I  thank 
my  God  it  ain't  too  late.  Don't  you  see  I  can't 
bear  to  have  your  clothes  hang  where  his  be 
long?  Don't  you  see  't  would  kill  me  to  have 
you  sit  in  his  chair  ?  When  I  find  puss  there, 
it 's  a  comfort.  If  't  was  you  —  I  don't  know 
but  I  might  do  you  a  mischief ! "  Her  voice 
sank,  in  awe  of  herself  and  her  own  capacity  for 
passionate  emotion. 


A  SECOND   MARRIAGE  259 

Laurie  Morse  had  much  swift  understanding 
of  the  human  heart.  His  own  nature  partook 
of  the  feminine,  and  he  shared  its  intuitions 
and  its  fears. 

"I  never  should  lay  that  up  against  you, 
Milly,"  he  said  kindly.  "  But  we  would  n't 
have  these  things.  You  'd  come  to  Saltash 
with  me,  and  we  'd  furnish  all  new." 

"  Not  have  these  things  ! "  called  Amelia, 
with  a  ringing  note  of  dismay,  — "  not  have 
these  things  he  set  by  as  he  did  his  life  !  Why, 
what  do  you  think  I  'm  made  of,  after  fifteen 
years  ?  What  did  /  think  I  was  made  of,  even 
to  guess  I  could  ?  You  don't  know  what 
women  are  like,  Laurie  Morse,  —  you  don't 
know !  " 

She  broke  down  in  piteous  weeping.  Even 
then  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  be  good  to 
find  herself  comforted  with  warm  human  sym 
pathy  ;  but  not  a  thought  of  its  possibility  re 
mained  in  her  mind.  She  saw  the  boundaries 
beyond  which  she  must  not  pass.  Though  the 
desert  were  arid  on  this  side,  it  was  her  desert, 
and  there  in  her  tent  must  she  abide.  She  be 
gan  speaking  again  between  sobbing  breaths  :  — 

"  I  did  have  a  dull  life.  I  used  up  all  my 
young  days  doin'  the  same  things  over  and  over, 
when  I  wanted  somethin'  different.  It  was 
dull ;  but  if  I  could  have  it  all  over  again,  I  'd 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone.  I  don't  know 
how  it  would  have  been  if  you  and  I  'd  come 


260  TIVERTON   TALES 

together  then,  and  had  it  all  as  we  planned  ;  but 
now  I  'm  a  different  woman.  I  can't  any  more 
go  back  than  you  could  turn  Sudleigh  River, 
and  coax  it  to  run  uphill.  I  don't  know  whether 
't  was  meant  my  life  should  make  me  a  different 
woman ;  but  I  am  different,  and  such  as  I  am, 
I  'm  his  woman.  Yes,  till  I  die,  till  I  'm  laid  in 
the  ground  'longside  of  him  !  "  Her  voice  had 
an  assured  ring  of  triumph,  as  if  she  were  taking 
again  an  indissoluble  marriage  oath. 

Laurie  had  grown  very  pale.  There  were 
forlorn  hollows  under  his  eyes  ;  now  he  looked 
twice  his  age. 

"  I  did  n't  suppose  you  kept  a  place  for  me," 
he  said,  with  an  unconscious  dignity.  "That 
would  n't  have  been  right,  and  him  alive.  And 
I  did  n't  wait  for  dead  men's  shoes.  But  some 
how  I  thought  there  was  something  between 
you  and  me  that  could  n't  be  outlived." 

Amelia  looked  at  him  with  a  frank  sweet 
ness  which  transfigured  her  face  into  spiritual 
beauty. 

"  I  thought  so,  too,"  she  answered,  with  that 
simplicity  ever  attending  our  approximation  to 
the  truth.  "  I  never  once  said  it  to  myself ; 
but  all  this  year,  'way  down  in  my  heart,  I  knew 
you  'd  come  back.  And  I  wanted  you  to  come. 
I  guess  I  'd  got  it  all  planned  out  how  we  'd 
make  up  for  what  we  'd  lost,  and  build  up  a  new 
life.  But  so  far  as  I  go,  I  guess  I  did  n't  lose 
by  what  I  've  lived  through.  I  guess  I  gained 


A   SECOND   MARRIAGE  261 

somethin'  I  'd  sooner  give  up  my  life  than  even 
lose  the  memory  of." 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  own  spiritual  in 
heritance  that  she  quite  forgot  his  pain.  She 
gazed  past  him  with  an  unseeing  look  ;  and 
striving  to  meet  and  recall  it,  he  faced  the  vision 
of  their  divided  lives.  To-morrow  Amelia  would 
remember  his  loss  and  mourn  over  it  with  mater 
nal  pangs ;  to-night  she  was  oblivious  of  all  but 
her  own.  Great  human  experiences  are  costly 
things ;  they  demand  sacrifice,  not  only  of  our 
selves,  but  of  those  who  are  near  us.  The  room 
was  intolerable  to  Laurie.  He  took  his  hat  and 
coat,  and  hurried  out.  Amelia  heard  the  drag 
ging  door  closed  behind  him.  She  realized, 
with  the  numbness  born  of  supreme  emotion, 
that  he  was  putting  on  his  coat  outside  in  the 
cold  ;  and  she  did  not  mind.  The  bells  stirred, 
and  went  clanging  away.  Then  she  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  bowed  her  head  on  her  hands  in  an 
acquiescence  that  was  like  prayer. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  Amelia  before  she 
awoke  again  to  temporal  things.  She  rose, 
smiling,  to  her  feet,  and  looked  about  her  as  if 
her  eyes  caressed  every  corner  of  the  homely 
room.  She  picked  up  puss  in  a  round,  com 
fortable  ball,  and  carried  her  back  to  the  hearth- 
side  chair;  there  she  stroked  her  until  her 
touchy  ladyship  had  settled  down  again  to  purr 
ing  content.  Then  Amelia,  still  smiling,  and 
with  an  absent  look,  as  if  her  mind  wandered 


262  TIVERTON  TALES 

through  lovely  possibilities  of  a  sort  which  can 
never  be  undone,  drew  forth  the  spinning-wheel, 
and  fitted  a  roll  to  the  spindle.  She  began  step 
ping  back  and  forth  as  if  she  moved  to  the 
measure  of  an  unheard  song,  and  the  pleasant 
hum  of  her  spinning  broke  delicately  upon  the 
ear.  It  seemed  to  waken  all  the  room  into  new 
vibrations  of  life.  The  clock  ticked  with  an 
assured  peace,  as  if  knowing  it  marked  eternal 
hours.  The  flames  waved  softly  upward  with 
out  their  former  crackle  and  sheen ;  and  the 
moving  shadows  were  gentle  and  rhythmic  ones 
come  to  keep  the  soul  company.  Amelia  felt 
her  thread  lovingly. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  dye  it  blue,"  she  said,  with  a 
tenderness  great  enough  to  compass  inanimate 
things.  "He  always  set  by  blue,  didn't  he, 
puss  ? " 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT 

THE  fields  were  turning  brown,  and  in  the 
dusty  gray  of  the  roadside,  closed  gentians 
gloomed,  and  the  aster  burned  like  a  purple 
star.  It  was  the  finest  autumn  for  many  years. 
People  said,  with  every  clear  day,  "  Now  this 
must  be  a  weather-breeder ; "  but  still  the 
storm  delayed.  Then  they  anxiously  scanned 
the  heavens,  as  if,  weeks  beforehand,  the  signs 
of  the  time  might  be  written  there  ;  for  this 
was  the  fall  of  all  others  when  wind  and  sky 
should  be  kind  to  Tiverton.  She  was  going 
to  celebrate  her  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anni 
versary,  and  she  was  big  with  the  importance 
of  it. 

On  a  still  afternoon,  over  three  weeks  before 
that  happy  day,  a  slender  old  man  walked 
erectly  along  the  country  road.  He  carried 
a  cane  over  his  shoulder,  and,  slung  upon  it, 
a  small  black  leather  bag,  bearing  the  words, 
painted  in  careful  letters,  "  Clocks  repaired  by 
N.  Oldfield."  As  he  went  on,  he  cast  a  glance, 
now  and  then,  to  either  side,  from  challenging 
blue  eyes,  strong  yet  in  the  indomitable  quality 
of  youth.  He  knew  every  varying  step  of  the 
road,  and  could  have  numbered,  from  memory, 


264  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  trees  and  bushes  that  fringed  its  length ; 
and  now,  after  a  week's  absence,  he  swept  the 
landscape  with  the  air  of  a  manorial  lord,  to 
see  what  changes  might  have  slipped  in  un 
awares.  At  one  point,  a  flat  triangular  stone 
had  been  tilted  up  on  edge,  and  an  unprac- 
ticed  hand  had  scrawled  on  it,  in  chalk,  "  4  M 
to  Sudleigh."  The  old  man  stopped,  took  the 
bag  from  his  shoulder,  and  laid  it  tenderly  on 
a  stone  of  the  wall.  Then,  with  straining 
hands,  he  pulled  the  rock  down  into  the  worn 
spot  where  it  had  lain,  and  gave  a  sigh  of  re 
lief  when  it  settled  into  its  accustomed  place, 
and  the  tall  grass  received  it  tremulously. 
Now  he  opened  his  bag,  took  from  it  a  cloth, 
carefully  folded,  and  rubbed  the  rock  until 
those  defiling  chalk  marks  were  partially  ef 
faced. 

"  Little  varmints  !  "  he  said,  apostrophizing 
the  absent  school  children  who  had  wrought 
the  deed.  "Can't  they  let  nothin'  alone?" 
He  took  up  his  bag,  and  went  on. 

Nicholas  Oldfield,  as  he  walked  the  road 
that  day,  was  a  familiar  figure  to  all  the 
county  round.  He  had  a  smooth,  carefully 
shaven  face,  with  a  fine  outline  of  nose  and 
chin,  and  his  straight  gray  hair  shone  from 
faithful  brushing.  He  was  almost  aggressively 
clean.  Even  his  blue  eyes  had  the  appearance 
of  having  just  been  washed,  like  a  spring  clay 
after  a  shower.  It  was  a  frequent  remark  that 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  265 

he  looked  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  a  bandbox  ; 
and  one  critic  even  went  so  far  as  to  assert 
that  on  Sundays  he  sandpapered  his  eyes  and 
gave  a  little  extra  polish  to  his  bones.  But 
these  were  calumnies ;  though  to-day  his  suit 
of  home-made  blue  was  quite  speckless,  and 
the  checked  gingham  neckerchief,  which  made 
his  ordinary  wear,  still  kept  its  stiff,  starched 
creases. 

"Dirt  don't  stick  to  you,  Mr.  Oldfield,"  once 
said  a  seeking  widow.  "  Your  washing  can't 
be  much.  I  guess  anybody  'd  be  glad  to  under 
take  it  for  you."  Mr.  Oldfield  nodded  gravely, 
as  one  receiving  the  tribute  which  was  justly 
his,  and  continued  to  do  his  washing  himself. 

As  he  walked  the  dusty  road,  bearing  his 
little  bag,  so  he  had  walked  it  for  years,  some 
times  within  a  few  miles  of  home,  and  again  at 
the  extreme  limit  of  the  county  edge.  The 
clocks  of  the  region  were  all  his  clients,  some 
regarded  with  compassion  ("  ramshackle 
things  "  that  needed  perpetual  tinkering)  and 
others  with  a  holy  awe.  "The  only  thing 
Nicholas  Oldfield  bows  the  knee  before  is 
a  double-back-action  clock  a  thousand  years 
old,"  said  Brad  Freeman,  the  regardless. 
"  That 's  how  he  reads  Ancient  of  Days." 
The  justice  of  the  remark  was  acknowledged, 
though,  as  touching  Mr.  Oldfield,  it  was  felt 
to  be  striking  rather  too  keenly  at  the  root  of 
things.  For  Nicholas  Oldfield  was  looked 


266  TIVERTON   TALES 

upon  with  a  respect  not  so  much  inspired  by 
his  outward  circumstances  as  by  his  method 
of  taking  them.  There  are,  indeed,  ways  and 
ways  among  us  who  serve  the  public.  When 
Tom  O'Neil  went  round  peddling  essences, 
children  saw  him  from  afar,  ran  to  meet  him, 
and,  falling  on  his  pack,  besought  him  for 
"  two-three-drops-o'-c'logne  "  with  such  fervor 
that  the  mothers  had  to  haul  them  off  by 
main  force,  in  order  themselves  to  approach 
his  redolence ;  but  when  the  clock-mender  ap 
peared,  with  his  little  bag,  propriety  walked 
before  him,  and  the  naughtiest  scion  of  the 
flock  would  come  soberly  in,  to  announce  :  — 

"Mother,  here  's  Mr.  Oldfield." 

It  is  true  that  this  little  old  man  did  exem 
plify  the  dignity  and  restraint  of  life  to  such 
a  degree  that,  had  it  not  been  for  his  one  colos 
sal  weakness,  the  town  might  have  condemned 
him,  in  good  old  Athenian  fashion.  Clock- 
mending  was  a  legitimate  industry ;  but  there 
were  those  who  felt  it  to  be,  in  his  case,  a  mere 
pretext  for  nosing  round  and  identifying  ridic 
ulous  old  things  which  nobody  prized  until 
Nicholas  Oldfield  told  them  it  was  conformable 
so  to  do.  Some  believed  him  and  some  did 
not  ;  but  it  was  known  that  a  MacDonough's 
Victory  tea-set  drove  him  to  an  almost  out 
spoken  rapture,  and  that  the  mere  mention  of 
the  Bay  Psalm  Book  (a  copy  of  which  he  sought 
with  the  haggard  fervor  of  one  who  worships 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  267 

but  has  ceased  to  hope)  was  enough  to  make 
him  "wild  as  a  hawk."  Old  papers,  too,  drew 
him  by  their  very  mildew ;  and  when  his  towns 
folk  were  in  danger  of  respecting  him  too  tedi 
ously,  they  recalled  these  amiable  puerilities, 
drew  a  breath  of  relief,  and  marked  his  value 
down. 

Many  facts  in  his  life  were  not  in  the  least 
understood,  because  he  never  saw  the  possi 
bility  of  talking  about  them.  For  example, 
when  at  the  marriage  of  his  son,  Young  Nick, 
he  made  over  the  farm,  and  kept  his  own 
residence  in  the  little  gambrel-roofed  house 
where  he  had  been  born,  and  his  father  and 
grandfather  before  him,  the  act  was,  for  a  time, 
regarded  somewhat  gloomily  by  the  public  at 
large.  There  were  Young  Nick  and  his  Hattie, 
living  in  the  big  new  house,  with  its  spacious 
piazza  and  cool  green  blinds  ;  there  the  two 
daughters  were  born  and  bred,  and  the  elder 
of  them  was  married.  The  new  house  had  its 
hired  girl  and  man  ;  and  meantime  the  other 
Nicholas  (nobody  ever  dreamed  of  calling  him 
Old  Nick)  was  cooking  his  own  meals,  and 
even,  of  a  Saturday,  scouring  his  kitchen  floor. 
It  was  easy  to  see  in  him  the  pathetic  symbol 
of  a  bygone  generation  relegated  to  the  past. 
A  little  wave  of  sympathy  crept  to  his  very 
feet,  and  then,  finding  itself  unnoted,  ebbed 
away  again.  Only  one  village  censor  dared 
speak,  saying  slyly  to  Young  Nick's  Hattie :  — 


268  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Ain't  no  room  for  grandpa  in  the  new 
house,  is  there  ?  " 

Hattie  opened  her  eyes  wide  at  this  dis 
covery,  though  now  she  realized  that  echoes  of 
a.  like  benevolence  had  reached  her  ears  before. 
She  went  home  very  early  from  the  quilting, 
and  that  night  she  said  to  her  husband,  as 
they  sat  on  the  doorstone,  waiting  for  the  milk 
to  cool : — 

"  Nicholas,  little  things  I  've  got  hold  of, 
first  an*  last,  make  me  conclude  folks  pity 
father.  Do  you  s'pose  they  do  ?  " 

Young  Nick  selected  a  fat  plantain  spike, 
and  began  stripping  the  seeds. 

"  Well,  I  dunno  what  for,"  said  he,  after  con 
sideration.  "  Father  seems  to  be  pretty  rug- 
ged." 

Hattie  was  one  of  those  who  find  no  quicker 
remedy  than  that  of  plentiful  speech ;  and 
later  in  the  evening,  she  sped  over  to  the  little 
house,  across  the  dewy  orchard.  Mr.  Oldfield 
had  come  home  only  that  afternoon,  and  now 
he  had  drawn  up  at  his  kitchen  table,  which 
was  covered  by  a  hand-woven  cloth,  beautifully 
ironed,  and  set  with  old-fashioned  dishes.  He 
had  hot  biscuits  and  apple-pie,  and  the  odor 
of  them  rose  soothingly  to  Hattie's  nostrils, 
dissipating,  for  a  moment,  her  consciousness 
of  tragedy  and  wrong.  A  man  could  not  be 
quite  forlorn  who  cooked  such  "victuals,"  and 
sat  before  them  so  serenely. 


THE   FLAT-IRON  LOT  269 

"  See  here,  father,"  said  she,  with  the  des 
peration  of  speaking  her  mind  for  the  first 
time  to  one  from  whom  she  had  hitherto  kept 
awesomely  remote ;  "  when  we  moved  into 
the  new  house,  I  dunno  's  there  was  any  talk 
about  your  comin',  too.  I  guess  it  never  en 
tered  into  our  heads  you  'd  do  anything  but  to 
stick  to  the  old  place.  An'  now,  after  it 's  all 
past  an'  gone,  the  neighbors  say"  — 

Nicholas  Oldfield  had  been  smiling  his 
slight,  dry  smile.  At  this  point,  he  took  up  a 
knife,  and  cut  a  careful  triangle  of  pie.  He 
did  all  these  things  as  if  each  one  were  very 
important. 

"  Here,  Hattie,"  said  he,  "  you  taste  o'  this 
dried  apple.  I  put  a  mite  o'  lemon  in." 

Hattie,  somehow  abashed  by  the  mental  im 
pact  of  the  little  man,  ate  her  pie  meekly,  and 
thenceforth  waived  the  larger  issue.  All  the 
same,  she  knew  the  neighbors  "  pitied  father," 
and  that  they  would  continue  to  pity  him  so 
long  as  he  lived  alone  in  the  little  peaceful 
house,  doing  his  own  washing  and  making  his 
own  pie. 

To-night  was  a  duplication  of  many  another 
when  Nicholas  Oldfield  had  turned  the  corner 
and  come  in  sight  of  his  own  home ;  but  often 
as  it  had  been  repeated,  the  experience  was 
never  the  same.  Some  would  have  named  hi? 
springing  emotion  delight ;  but  it  neither  quick 
ened  his  pace  nor  made  him  draw  his  breath 


270  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  faster.  Perhaps  he  even  walked  a  little 
more  slowly,  to  enjoy  the  taste,  for  he  was  a 
saving  man.  There  was  the  little  house,  white 
as  paint  could  make  it,  and  snug  in  bowering 
foliage.  He  noted,  with  an  approving  eye, 
that  the  dahlias  in  the  front  yard,  set  in  stiff 
nodding  rows,  were  holding  their  own  bravely 
against  the  dry  fall  weather,  and  that  the  asters 
were  blooming  profusely,  purple  and  pink.  A 
rare  softness  came  over  his  features  when  he 
stepped  into  the  yard  ;  and  though  he  exam 
ined  the  roof  critically  in  passing,  it  was  with 
the  eye  of  love.  He  fitted  the  key  in  the 
lock ;  the  sound  of  its  turning  made  music  in 
his  ears,  and,  setting  his  foot  upon  the  sill,  he 
was  a  man  for  whom  that  little  was  enough. 
Nicholas  Oldfield  was  at  home. 

He  laid  down  his  bag,  and  went,  without  an 
instant's  pause,  straight  through  to  the  sitting- 
room,  and  stood  before  the  tall  eight-day  clock. 
He  put  his  hand  on  the  woodwork,  as  if  it 
might  have  been  the  shoulder  of  a  friend,  and 
looked  up  understandingly  in  its  face. 

"Well,  here  we  be,"  said  he.  "You'd  ha' 
hil'  out  till  mornin',  though." 

For  wherever  he  might  travel,  he  always 
made  it  a  point  to  be  home  in  time  to  wind  the 
clocks  ;  and  however  early  he  might  hurry  away 
again,  under  stress  of  some  antiquarian  im 
pulse,  they  were  left  alive  and  pulsing  behind 
him.  There  was  one  in  each  room,  besides 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  271 

the  tall  eight-day  in  the  parlor,  and  they 
were  all  soft-voiced  and  leisurely,  reminiscent 
of  another  age  than  ours.  Though  three  of 
them  had  been  inherited,  it  almost  seemed  as 
if  Nicholas  must  have  selected  the  entire  com 
pany,  so  harmonious  were  they,  so  serenely 
fitted  to  the  calm  decorum  of  his  own  de 


sires. 


In  half  an  hour  he  had  accomplished  many 
things,  and  his  fire  sent  a  spiral  breath  toward 
heaven.  The  dark  old  kitchen  lay  open,  door 
and  window,  to  the  still  opulent  sun,  and  from 
the  pantry  and  a  corner  cupboard  came  gleams 
of  color,  to  delight  the  eye.  Here  were  riches, 
indeed  :  old  India  china,  an  unbroken  set  of 
Sheltered  Peasant,  and,  on  the  top  shelf,  little 
mugs  and  cups  of  a  pink  lustre,  soft  and  sweet 
as  flowers.  Many  a  collector  had  wooed  Nicho 
las  Oldfield  to  part  with  his  china  (for  the 
fame  of  it  had  spread  afar,)  but  his  only  re 
sponse  to  solicitation  was  to  open  the  doors 
more  widely  on  his  treasures,  remarking,  with 
out  emphasis  :  — 

"  I  guess  they  might  as  well  stay  where  they 

be." 

So  passive  was  he,  that  many  among  mer 
chants  judged  they  had  impressed  him,  and  re 
turned  again  and  again  to  the  charge  ;  but  when 
they  found  always  the  same  imperturbable 
front,  the  same  mild  neutrality  of  demeanor, 
they  melted  sadly  away,  and  were  seen  no 


*72  TIVERTON  TALES 

more,  leaving  their  places  to  be  taken  by  others 
equally  hopeful  and  as  sure  to  be  betrayed. 

One  creature  only  was  capable  of  rousing 
Nicholas  Oldfield  from  that  calm  wherein  he 
went  ticking  on  through  life.  She  it  was  who, 
by  some  natal  likeness,  understood  him  wholly  ; 
and  to-night,  just  as  he  was  sitting  down  to  his 
supper  of  "  cream  o'  tartar  "  biscuits  and  smok 
ing  tea,  her  clear  voice  broke  upon  his  solitude. 

"  Gran'ther,"  called  Mary  Oldfield  from  the 
door,  "  mother  says,  '  Won't  you  come  over  to 
supper  ?'  She  saw  your  smoke." 

Nicholas  pushed  back  his  chair  a  little  ;  he 
felt  himself  completed. 

"You  had  yours?"  he  asked,  in  his  usual 
even  tones. 

"  No.     I  waited  for  you." 

"  Then  you  come  right  in  an'  git  it.  Take 
your  mug  —  here,  I  '11  reach  it  down  for  ye  — 
an'  there  's  the  Good-Girl  plate." 

Mary  Oldfield  was  a  tall,  pleasant  looking 
maid  of  sixteen,  and  standing  quietly  by,  while 
her  grandfather  got  out  her  own  plate  and 
mug,  she  was  an  amazingly  faithful  copy  of 
him.  They  smiled  a  little  at  each  other,  in 
sitting  down,  but  there  was  no  closer  greeting 
between  them.  They  were  exceedingly  well 
content  to  be  together  again,  and  this  was  so 
simple  and  natural  a  state  that  there  was 
nothing  to  say  about  it.  Only  Nicholas 
looked  at  her  from  time  to  time  —  her  capable 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  273 

brown  hands  and  careful  braids  of  hair,  —  and 
nodded  briefly,  as  he  had  a  way  of  nodding  at 
his  clocks. 

"  You  know  what  I  told  you,  Mary,  about 
the  Flat-Iron  Lot  ? "  he  asked,  while  Mary 
buttered  her  biscuit. 

She  looked  at  him  in  assent. 

"Well,  I've  proved  it." 

"You  don't  say  !" 

Mary  had  certain  antique  methods  of  speech, 
which  the  new-fangled  school  teacher,  not  lik 
ing  to  pronounce  them  vulgar,  had  tactfully 
dubbed  "obsolete."  "If  we  used  'em  all  the 
time  they  would  n't  get  obsolete,  would  they  ? " 
asked  Mary ;  and  the  school  teacher,  being  a 
logical  person,  made  no  answer.  So  Mary  went 
on  plying  them  with  a  conscientious  calm 
ness  like  one  determined  to  keep  a  precious 
and  misprized  metal  in  circulation.  She  even 
called  Nicholas  gran'ther,  because  he  liked  it, 
and  because  he  had  called  his  own  grandfather 
so. 

"  Ye  see,"  said  Nicholas,  "  the  fust  rec'ids 
were  missin'.  '  Burnt  up ! '  says  that  town 
clerk  over  to  Sudleigh.  *  Burnt  when  the  old 
meetin'-house  ketched  fire,  arter  the  Injun 
raid.'  *  Burnt  up!'  thinks  I.  'The  cat's 
foot !  I  guess  so,  when  the  communion  ser 
vice  was  carried  over  fifteen  mile  an'  left  in 
a  potato  sullar.'  So  I  says  to  myself,  'What 
become  o'  that  fust  communion  set  ? '  Why, 


274  TIVERTON   TALES 

before  the  meetin'-house  was  repaired,  they 
all  rode  over  to  what 's  now  Saltash,  to  worship 
in  Square  Billin's's  kitchen.  Now,  when  Square 
Billin's  died  of  a  fever,  that  same  winter,  they 
hove  all  his  books  into  that  old  lumber-room 
over  Sudleigh  court-house.  So,  when  I  was 
fixin'  up  the  court-house  clock,  t'  other  day,  I 
clim'  up  to  that  room,  an'  shet  myself  in  there. 
An',  Mary,  I  found  them  rec'ids  !  "  He  looked 
at  her  with  that  complete  and  awe-stricken  tri 
umph  which  nobody  else  had  ever  seen  upon 
his  face.  Her  own  reflected  it. 

"  Where  are  they,  gran'ther  ?  "  asked  Mary. 
But  she  was  the  more  excited  ;  she  could  only 
whisper. 

"They're  loose  sheets  o'  paper,"  returned 
Nicholas,  "  an'  they  're  in  my  bag  !  " 

Mary  made  an  involuntary  movement  toward 
the  bag,  which  lay,  innocently  secretive,  on  a 
neighboring  chair.  Even  its  advertising  legend 
had  a  knowing  look.  Nicholas  followed  her 
glance. 

"No,"  said  he  firmly,  "not  now.  We'll 
read  'em  all  over  this  evenin',  when  I  've  done 
the  dishes.  But,  Mary,  I  '11  tell  ye  this  much  : 
it's  got  the  whole  story  of  the  settlers  comin' 
into  town,  an'  which  way  they  come,  an'  all 
about  it,  writ  down  by  Simeon  Gerry,  the  fust 
minister,  the  one  that  killed  five  Injuns,  stop- 
pin'  to  load  an'  fire,  an'  then  opened  on  the 
rest  with  bilin'  fat.  An',  Mary,  the  fust  set- 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  275 

tier  of  all  was  Nicholas  Oldfield,  haulin'  his 
wife  on  a  kind  of  a  drag  made  o'  withes  ;  an' 
the  path  they  took  led  straight  over  our  Flat- 
iron  Lot.  An',  Mary,  't  was  there  they  rested, 
an'  offered  up  prayer  to  God." 

"  O  my  soul,  gran'ther !  "  breathed  Mary, 
clasping  her  little  brown  hands.  "  O  my 
soul !  "  Her  face  grew  curiously  mature.  It 
seemed  to  mirror  his.  She  leaned  forward,  in 
a  deadly  earnestness.  "  Gran'ther,"  said  she, 
"did  they  settle  here  first?  Or  —  or  was  it 
Sudleigh?" 

Now,  indeed,  was  Nicholas  Oldfield  the  her 
ald  of  news  good  both  to  tell  and  hear. 

"  The  fust  settlement,"  said  he,  as  if  he  read 
it  from  the  book  of  fate,  "was  made  in  Tiver- 
ton,  on  the  sixteenth  day  of  the  month  ;  the 
second  in  Sudleigh,  on  the  twenty-fifth." 

"So,  when  you  guessed  at  the  date,  and 
told  parson  to  have  the  celebration  then,  you 
got  it  right?" 

"I  got  it  right,"  replied  Nicholas  quietly. 
"  But  pa'son  shall  see  the  rec'ids,  an'  I  '11  recom 
mend  him  to  put  'em  under  lock  an'  key." 

The  two  sat  there  and  looked  at  each  other, 
with  an  outwelling  of  great  content.  Then 
Mary  passed  her  mug,  and  while  Nicholas 
filled  it,  he  gave  her  an  oft-repeated  charge:  — 

"  Don't  you  open  your  head  now,  Mary. 
All  this  is  between  you  an'  me.  I  '11  just  men 
tion  it  to  pa'son,  an'  make  up  my  mind  whether 


276  TIVERTON  TALES 

he  sees  the  meanin'  on 't.  But  don't  you  say 
one  word  to  your  father  an'  mother.  To  them 
it  don't  signify." 

Mary  nodded  wisely.  She  knew,  with  the 
philosophy  of  a  much  older  experience,  that 
she  and  gran'ther  lived  alone  in  a  nest  of 
kindly  aliens.  As  if  their  mention  evoked  a 
foreign  presence,  her  mother's  voice  sounded 
that  instant  from  the  door  :  — 

"  Mary,  why  under  the  sun  did  n't  you  come 
back  ?  I  sent  word  for  you  to  run  over  with 
her,  father,  an'  have  some  supper.  Well,  if 
you  two  ain't  thick  !  " 

"  We  're  havin'  a  dish  o'  discourse,"  re 
turned  Nicholas  quietly. 

Young  Nick's  Hattie  was  forty-five,  but  she 
looked  much  younger.  Extreme  plumpness 
had  insured  her  against  wrinkles,  and  her  light 
brown  hair  was  banded  smoothly  back.  Hattie's 
originality  lay  in  a  desire  for  color,  and  therein 
she  overstepped  the  bounds  of  all  decorum. 
It  was  customary  to  see  her  barred  across  with 
enormous  plaids,  or  stripes  going  the  broad 
way ;  and  so  long  had  she  lived  under  such 
insignia  that  no  one  would  have  known  her 
without  them.  She  came  in  with  soft,  heavy 
footfalls,  and  sat  down  in  the  little  rocking- 
chair  at  Mr.  Oldfield's  right  hand.  She  smiled 
at  him,  somewhat  nervously. 

"  Well,  father,"  said  she,  "you  got  home  !  " 

Nicholas  helped  himself  to  another  half  cup 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  277 

of  tea,  after  holding  the  teapot  tentatively 
across  to  Mary's  mug. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  in  his  dry  and  gentle 
fashion,  "  I  've  got  home." 

Hattie  began  rocking,  in  a  rapid  staccato,  to 
punctuate  her  speech. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  "  I  '11  say  my  say  an'  done 
with  it.  There 's  goin'  to  be  a  town-meetin' 
to-night,  an'  Nicholas  sent  me  over  to  mention 
it.  '  Father  '11  want  to  be  on  hand,'  says  he." 

Mr.  Oldfield  pushed  back  his  cup,  and  then 
his  chair.  He  bent  his  keen  blue  eyes  upon 
her. 

"  Town  meetin'  this  time  o'  year  ?  "  said  he. 
"What  for?" 

"  Oh,  it 's  about  the  celebration.  Old  Mr. 
Eaton  "  — 

"  What  Eaton  ?  " 

"  William  W." 

"He  that  went  away  in  war  time,  an'  made 
money  in  wool  ?  Old  War- Wool  Eaton  ? " 

Nicholas  nodded,  at  her  assent,  and  his  look 
blackened.  He  knew  what  was  coming. 

"  Well,  he  sent  word  he  meant  to  give  us  a 
clock,  same  as  he  had  other  towns,  an'  he 
wanted  we  should  have  it  up  before  the  cele 
bration." 

"Yes,"  said  Nicholas  Oldfield,  "he'll  give 
us  a  clock,  will  he  ?  I  knew  he  would.  I  've 
said  'twas  comin'.  He  give  one  to  Saltash  ; 
he  's  gi'n  'em  all  over  the  county.  Do  you 


278  TIVERTON   TALES 

know  what  them  clocks  be  ?  They  've  got 
letters  round  the  dial,  in  place  o'  figgers ;  an* 
the  letters  spell  out, '  In  Memory  of  Me.'  An' 
down  to  Saltash  they  've  gi'n  up  sayin'  it 's 
quarter  arter  twelve,  or  the  like  o'  that.  They 
say  it 's  O  minutes  past  I." 

He  glared  at  her.  Young  Nick's  Hattie 
thought  she  had  never  heard  father  speak  with 
such  bitterness  ;  and  indeed  it  was  true.  Never 
before  had  he  been  assailed  on  his  own  ground  ; 
it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  township  now  con 
spired  to  bait  him. 

"  Well  "  she  remarked  weakly,  "  I  dunno  's  it 
does  any  hurt,  so  long  as  they  can  tell  what 
they  mean  by  it." 

Nicholas  threw  her  a  pitying  glance.  He 
scorned  to  waste  eternal  truth  on  one  so  dull. 

"  Well,"  she  went  on,  in  desperation,  "that 
ain't  all,  neither.  I  might  as  well  say  the 
whole,  an'  done  with  it.  He  wants  'em  to  set 
up  the  clock  on  the  meetin'-house  ;  an'  seeing 
the  tower  might  n't  be  firm  enough,  he  '11  build 
it  up  higher,  an'  give  'em  a  new  bell." 

Now,  indeed,  Nicholas  Oldfield  was  in  the 
case  of  Shylock,  when  he  learned  his  daughter's 
limit  of  larceny.  "  The  curse  never  fell  upon 
our  nation  till  now,"  so  he  might  have  quoted. 
"  I  never  felt  it  till  now." 

He  rose  from  his  chair. 

"  In  the  name  of  God  Almighty,"  he  asked 
solemnly,  "  what  do  they  want  of  a  new  bell  ? " 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  279 

Young  Nick's  Hattie  gave  an  involuntary 
cry. 

"  O  father  !  "  she  entreated,  "  don't  say  such 
words.  I  never  see  you  take  on  so.  What 
under  the  sun  has  got  into  you  ?  " 

Nicholas  made  no  reply.  Slowly  and  me 
thodically  he  was  putting  the  dishes  into  the 
wooden  sink.  When  he  touched  Mary's  pink 
mug,  his  fingers  trembled  a  little  ;  but  he  did 
not  look  at  her.  He  knew  she  understood. 
Young  Nick's  Hattie  rolled  her  hands  ner 
vously  in  her  apron,  and  then  unrolled  them, 
and  smoothed  the  apron  down.  She  gathered 
herself  desperately. 

"Well,  father,"  she  said,  "I  've  got  another 
arrant.  I  said  I  'd  do  it,  an'  I  will ;  but  I 
dunno  how  you  '11  take  it." 

"  O  mother !  "  cried  Mary,  "don't  ! " 

"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  Nicholas,  folding  the 
tablecloth  in  careful  creases.  "  Say  your  say 
an'  git  it  over." 

Hattie  rocked  faster  and  faster.  Even  in 
the  stress  of  the  moment  Nicholas  remembered 
that  the  old  chair  was  well  made,  arid  true  to 
its  equilibrium. 

"Well,"  said  she,  "  Luella  an'  Freeman 
Henry  come  over  here  this  very  day,  an'  Free 
man  Henry's  possessed  you  should  sell  him 
the  Flat-iron  Lot." 

"Wants  the  Flat-iron  Lot,  does  he?"  in 
quired  Nicholas  grimly.  "  What 's  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  with  it  ?  " 


280  TIVERTON   TALES 

"He  wants  to  build/'  answered  Hattie, 
momentarily  encouraged.  "He  says  he '11  be 
glad  to  ride  over  to  work,  every  mornin'  of  his 
life,  if  he  can  only  feel 't  he 's  settled  in  Tiver- 
ton  for  good.  An'  there  's  that  lot  on  high 
ground,  right  near  the  meetin'-house,  as  sightly 
a  place  as  ever  was,  an'  no  good  to  you,  — 
there  ain't  half  a  load  o'  hay  cut  there  in  a 
season,  —  an'  he  'd  pay  the  full  vally  "  — 

"  Stop  !  "  called  Nicholas  ;  and  though  his 
tone  was  conversational,  Hattie  paused,  open- 
mouthed,  in  full  swing.  He  turned  and  faced 
her.  "Hattie,"  said  he,  "did  you  know  that 
the  fust  settlers  of  this  town  had  anything  to 
do  with  that  lot  o'  land  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't  know  it,"  answered  Hattie 
blankly. 

"  I  guess  you  did  n't,"  concurred  Nicholas. 
He  had  gone  back  to  his  old  gentleness  of 
voice.  "  An'  't  would  n't  ha'  meant  nothin'  to 
ye,  if  ye  had  known  it.  Now,  you  harken  to 
me  !  It 's  my  last  word.  That  Flat-Iron  Lot 
stays  under  this  name  so  long  as  I  'm  above 
ground.  When  I  'm  gone,  you  can  do  as  ye 
like.  Now,  I  don't  want  to  hurry  ye,  but  I  'm 
goin'  down  to  vote." 

Hattie  rose,  abashed  and  nearly  terrified. 
"  Well !  "  said  she  vacantly.  «  Well !  "  Nich 
olas  had  taken  the  broom,  under  pretext  of 
brushing  up  the  crumbs,  and  he  seemed  liter* 
ally  to  be  sweeping  her  away.  It  was  a  wind 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  281 

of  destiny ;  and  scudding  softly  and  heavily 
before  it,  she  disappeared  in  the  gathering 
dusk. 

"  Mary  !  "  she  called  from  the  gate,  "  Mary ! 
Guess  you  better  come  along  with  me." 

Mary  did  not  hear.  She  was  standing  by 
Nicholas,  holding  the  edge  of  his  sleeve.  The 
unaccustomed  action  was  significant  ;  it  be 
spoke  a  passionate  loyalty.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  on  fire,  and  two  hot  tears  stood  in  them, 
unstanched.  "  O  gran'ther  !  "  she  cried,  "  don't 
you  let  'em  have  it.  I  wish  I  was  father.  I  'd 
see  ! " 

Nicholas  Oldfield  stood  quite  still,  obedient 
to  that  touch  upon  his  arm. 

"It's  the  name,  Mary,"  said  he.  "Why, 
Freeman  Henry  's  a  Titcomb  !  He  can't  help 
that.  But  he  need  n't  think  he  can  buy  Old- 
field  land,  an'  set  up  a  house  there,  as  if  't  was 
all  in  the  day's  work.  Why,  Mary,  I  meant  to 
leave  that  land  to  you  !  An'  p'raps  you  won't 
marry.  Nobody  knows.  Then,  't  would  stand 
in  the  name  a  mite  longer." 

Mary  blushed  a  little,  but  her  eyes  never 
wavered. 

"  No,  gran'ther,"  said  she  firmly,  "  I  sha'n't 
ever  marry  anybody." 

"Well,  ye  can't  tell,"  responded  Nicholas, 
with  a  sigh.  "  Ye  can't  tell.  He  might  take 
your  name  if  he  wanted  ye  enough  ;  but  I 
should  call  it  a  poor  tool  that  would  do  that." 


282  TIVERTON   TALES 

He  sighed  again,  as  he  reached  for  his  hat, 
and  Mary  and  he  went  out  of  the  house  to 
gether,  hand  in  hand.  At  the  gate  they 
parted,  and  Nicholas  took  his  way  to  the 
schoolhouse,  where  the  town  fathers  were  al 
ready  assembled. 

Since  he  passed  over  it  that  afternoon,  the 
road  had  changed,  responsive  to  twilight  and 
the  coming  dark.  Nicholas  knew  it  in  all  its 
phases,  from  the  dawn  of  spring,  vocal  with 
the  peeping  of  frogs,  to  the  revery  of  winter, 
the  silence  of  snow,  and  a  hopeful  glow  in  the 
west.  Just  here,  by  the  barberry  bush  at  the 
corner,  he  had  stood  still  under  the  spell  of 
Northern  Lights.  That  was  the  night  when 
his  wife  lay  first  in  Tiverton  churchyard ;  and 
he  remembered,  as  a  part  of  the  strangeness 
and  wonder  of  the  time,  how  the  north  had 
streamed,  and  the  neighboring  houses  had  been 
rosy  red.  But  at  this  hour  of  the  brooding, 
sultry  fall,  there  was  a  bitter  fragrance  in  the 
air,  and  the  world  seemed  tuned  to  the  som 
nolent  sound  of  crickets,  singing  the  fields  to 
sleep.  That  one  little  note  brooded  over  the 
earth,  and  all  the  living  things  upon  it :  hover 
ing,  and  crooning,  and  lulling  them  to  the  rest 
decreed  from  of  old.  The  homely  beauty  of  it 
smote  upon  him,  though  it  could  not  cheer. 
A  hideous  progress  seemed  to  threaten,  not 
alone  the  few  details  it  touched,  but  all  the 
sweet,  familiar  things  of  life.  Old  War-Wool 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  283 

Eaton,  in  assailing  the  town's  historic  peace, 
menaced  also  the  crickets  and  the  breath  of 
asters  in  the  air.  He  was  the  rampant  spirit 
of  an  awful  change.  So,  in  the  bitterness  of 
revolt,  Nicholas  Oldfield  marched  on,  and 
stepped  silently  into  the  little  schoolhouse,  to 
meet  his  fellows.  They  were  standing  about 
in  groups,  each  laying  down  the  law  according 
to  his  kind.  The  doors  were  wide  open,  and 
Nicholas  felt  as  if  he  had  brought  in  with  him 
the  sounds  of  coming  night.  They  kept  him 
sane,  so  that  he  could  hold  his  own,  as  he  might 
not  have  done  in  a  room  full  of  winter  bright 
ness. 

"  Hullo  !  "  cried  Caleb  Rivers,  in  his  neutral 
voice.  "Here's  Mr.  Oldfield.  Well,  Mr. 
Oldfield,  there 's  a  good  deal  on  hand." 

"  Called  any  votes  ?"  asked  Nicholas. 

"Well,  no,"  said  Caleb,  scraping  his  chin. 
"  I  guess  we  're  sort  o'  takin'  the  sense  o'  the 
meetin'." 

"  Good  deal  like  a  quiltin'  so  fur,"  remarked 
Brad  Freeman  indulgently.  "  All  gab  an'  no 
git  there !  " 

"They  tell  me,"  said  Uncle  Eli  Pike,  ap 
proaching  Nicholas  as  if  he  had  something  to 
confide,  "that  out  west,  where  they  have  them 
new-fangled  clocks,  they  're  all  lighted  up  witl 
'lectricity." 

"  Do  they  so  ? "  asked  Caleb,  but  Nicholas 
returned,  with  an  unwonted  fierceness  :  — 


284  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Does  that  go  to  the  right  spot  with  you  ? 
Do  you  want  to  see  a  clock-face  starin'  over 
Tiverton,  like  a  full  moon,  chargin'  ye  to  keep 
Old  War- Wool  Eaton  in  memory  ?" 

"Well,  no,"  replied  Eli  gently,  "I  dunno's 
I  do,  an'  I  dunno  but  I  do." 

"  Might  set  a  lantern  back  o'  the  dial,  an* 
take  turns  lightin'  on  't,"  suggested  Brad 
Freeman. 

"  Might  carve  out  a  jack-o'-lantern  like  Old 
Eaton's  face,"  supplemented  Tom  O'Neil 
irreverently. 

"  Well,"  concluded  Rivers,  "  I  guess,  when 
all 's  said  and  done,  we  might  as  well  take  the 
clock,  an'  bell,  too.  When  a  man  makes  a  fair 
offer,  it 's  no  more  'n  civil  to  close  with  it.  Ye 
can't  rightly  heave  it  back  ag'in." 

"  Myargyment  is,"  put  in  Ebenezer  Tolman, 
who  knew  how  to  lay  dollar  by  dollar,  "  if  he  's 
willin'  to  do  one  thing  for  the  town,  he's 
willin'  to  do  another.  S'pose  he  offered  us 
a  new  brick  meetin'-house  —  or  a  fancy  gate 
to  the  cemet'ry  !  Or  s'pose  he  had  it  in  mind 
to  fill  in  that  low  land,  so  't  we  could  bury 
there  !  Why,  he  could  bring  the  town  right 
up  !  Or,  take  it  t'  other  way  round  ;  he  could 
put  every  dollar  he's  got  into  Sudleigh." 

Nicholas  Oldfield  groaned,  but  in  the  stress 
of  voices  no  one  heard  him.  He  slipped  about 
from  one  group  to  another,  and  always  the 
Sentiment  was  the  same.  A  few  smiled  at  Old 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  285 

War- Wool  Eaton,  who  desired  so  urgently  to 
be  remembered,  when  no  one  was  likely  to  for 
get  him  ;  but  all  agreed  that  it  was,  at  the 
worst,  a  harmless  and  natural  folly. 

"  Let  him  be  remembered,"  said  one,  with 
a  large  impartiality.  "  'T  won't  do  us  no  hurt, 
an'  we  shall  have  the  clock  an'  bell." 

Just  as  the  meeting  was  called  to  order, 
Nicholas  Oldfield  stole  away,  and  no  one 
missed  him.  The  proceedings  began  with 
some  animated  discussion,  all  tending  one  way. 
Cupidity  had  entered  into  the  public  soul,  and 
everybody  professed  himself  willing  to  take 
the  clock,  lest,  by  refusing,  some  golden  future 
should  be  marred.  Let  Old  Eaton  have  his 
way,  if  thereby  they  might  beguile  him  into 
paving  theirs.  Let  the  town  grow.  Talk  was 
very  full  and  free ;  but  when  the  moment 
came  for  taking  a  vote,  an  unexpected  sound 
broke  roundly  on  the  air.  It  was  the  bell  of 
the  old  church.  One  !  it  tolled.  Each  man 
looked  at  his  neighbor.  Had  death  entered 
the  village,  and  they  unaware  ?  Two  !  three  !  it 
went  solemnly  on,  the  mellow  cadence  scarcely 
dying  before  another  stroke  renewed  it.  The 
sexton  was  Simeon  Pease,  a  little  red-headed 
man,  a  hunchback,  abnormally  strong.  Sud 
denly  he  rose  in  amazement.  His  face  looked 
ashen. 

"  Suthin  's  tollin'  the  bell !  "  he  gasped, 
«  The  bell 's  a-tollin'  an'  1 airit  there!" 


286  TIVERTON    TALES 

A  new  element  of  mystery  and  terror  sprang 
to  life. 

"  The  sax'on  's  here  !  "  whispered  one  and 
another.  But  nobody  stirred,  for  nobody  would 
lose  count.  Twenty-three  !  the  dead  was  young. 
Twenty-four !  and  so  it  marched  and  marched, 
to  thirty  and  thirty-five.  They  looked  about 
them,  taking  a  swift  inventory  of  familiar 
faces,  and  more  than  one  man  felt  a  tighten 
ing  about  his  heart,  at  thought  of  the  women 
folk  at  home.  The  record  climbed  to  middle- 
age,  and  tolled  majestically  beyond  it,  like  a 
life  ripening  to  victorious  close.  Sixty  !  seventy  ! 
eighty-one  ! 

"  It  ain't  Pa' son  True  !  "  whispered  an  awe 
struck  voice. 

Then  on  it  beat,  to  the  completed  century. 

The  women  of  Tiverton,  in  afterwards  weigh 
ing  the  immobility  of  their  public  represen 
tatives  under  this  mysterious  clangor,  dwelt 
upon  the  fact  with  scorn. 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  was  smart ! " 
cried  sundry  of  them  in  turn.  "  Set  there 
like  a  bump  on  a  log,  an'  wonder  what 's  the 
matter !  Never  heard  of  anything  so  numb  in 
all  iny  born  days.  If  I  was  a  man,  I  guess 
I  'd  see  !  " 

It  was  Brad  Freeman  who  broke  the  spell, 
with  a  sudden  thought  and  cry,  — 

"  By  thunder  !  maybe  's  suthin  's  afire  !  " 

He  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  with  long,  loping 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  287 

strides  made  his  way  up  the  hill  to  Tiverton 
church.  The  men,  in  one  excited,  surging 
rabble,  followed  him.  The  women  were  be 
fore  them.  They,  too,  had  heard  the  tolling  for 
the  unknown  dead,  and  had  climbed  a  quicker 
way,  leaving  fire  and  cradle  behind.  At  the 
very  moment  when  they  were  pressing,  men 
and  women,  to  the  open  church  door,  the  last 
lingering  clang  had  ceased,  the  bell  lay  hum 
ming  itself  to  rest,  and  Nicholas  Oldfield  strode 
out  and  faced  them.  By  this  time,  factions 
had  broken  up,  and  each  woman  instinctively 
sought  her  husband's  side,  assuring  herself  of 
protection  against  the  unresting  things  of  the 
spirit.  Young  Nick's  Hattie  found  her  law 
ful  ally,  with  the  rest. 

"  My  soul !  "  said  she  in  a  whisper,  "  it 's 
father  !  " 

Nicholas  touched  her  arm  in  warning,  and 
stood  silent.  He  felt  that  the  waters  were 
troubled,  as  he  had  known  them  to  be  once 
or  twice  in  his  boyhood. 

"  He 's  got  his  mad  up,"  remarked  Young 
Nick  to  himself.  "  Stan'  from  under !  " 

Nicholas  strode  through  the  crowd,  and  it 
separated  to  let  him  pass.  There  was  about 
him  at  that  moment  an  amazing  physical  en 
ergy,  apparent  even  in  the  dark.  He  seemed 
a  different  man,  and  one  woman  whispered  to 
another,  "Why,  that  can't  be  Mr.  Oldfield! 
It  '$  a  head  taller." 


288  TIVERTON   TALES 

He  walked  across  the  green,  and  the  crowd 
turned  also,  to  follow  him.  There,  just  oppo 
site  the  church,  lay  his  own  Flat-Iron  Lot,  and 
he  stepped  into  it,  over  the  low  stone  bound 
ary,  and  turned  about. 

"  Don't  ye  come  no  nearer,"  called  he. 
"This  is  my  land.  Don't  ye  set  foot  on  it." 

The  Flat-Iron  Lot  was  a  triangular  piece  of 
ground,  rich  in  drooping  elms,  and  otherwise 
varied  only  by  a  great  boulder  looming  up 
within  the  wall  nearest  the  church.  Nicholas 
paused  for  a  moment  where  he  was ;  then 
with  a  thought  of  being  the  better  heard,  he 
turned,  ran  up  the  rough  side  of  the  boulder, 
and  faced  his  fellows.  As  he  stood  there, 
illumined  by  the  rising  moon,  he  seemed 
colossal. 

"He'll  break  his  infernal  old  neck!"  said 
Brad  Freeman  admiringly.  But  no  one  an 
swered,  for  Nicholas  Oldfield  had  begun  to 
speak. 

"  Don't  ye  set  foot  on  my  land !  "  he  re 
peated.  "  Ye  ain  't  wuth  it.  Do  you  know 
what  this  land  is  ?  It  belonged  to  a  man  that 
settled  in  a  place  that  knows  enough  to  cele 
brate  its  foundin',  but  don't  know  enough  to 
prize  what 's  fell  to  it.  Do  you  know  what  I 
was  doin'  of,  when  I  tolled  that  bell  ?  I  '11  tell 
ye.  I  tolled  a  hunderd  an'  ten  strokes.  That 's 
the  age  of  the  bell  you  're  goin'  to  throw  aside 
to  flatter  up  a  man  that  made  money  out  o'  the 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  289 

war.  A  hunderd  an'  twelve  years  ago  that 
bell  was  cast  in  England ;  a  hunderd  an'  ten 
years  ago  't  was  sent  over  here." 

"  Now,  how 's  father  know  that  ?  "  whispered 
Hattie  disparagingly. 

"  I  've  cast  my  vote.  Them  hunderd  an* 
ten  strokes  is  all  the  voice  I  '11  have  in  the 
matter,  or  any  matter,  so  long  as  I  live  in  this 
God-forsaken  town.  I  'd  ruther  die  than  talk 
over  a  thing  like  that  in  open  meetin'.  It 's 
an  insult  to  them  that  went  before  ye,  an'  fit 
hunger  and  cold  an'  Injuns.  I  've  got  only 
one  thing  more  to  say,"  he  continued,  and 
some  fancied  there  came  a  little  break  in  his 
voice.  "  When  ye  take  the  old  bell  down, 
send  her  out  to  sea,  an'  sink  her ;  or  bury  her 
deep  enough  in  the  woods,  so  't  nobody  '11  git 
at  her  till  the  Judgment  Day." 

With  one  descending  step,  he  seemed  to 
melt  away  into  the  darkness;  and  though 
every  one  stood  quite  still,  expectant,  there 
was  no  sound,  save  that  of  the  crickets  and 
the  night.  He  had  gone,  and  left  them  trem 
bling.  Well  as  they  knew  him,  he  had  all  the 
effect  of  some  strange  herald,  freighted  with 
wisdom  from  another  sphere. 

"Well,  I  swear!"  said  Brad  Freeman,  at 
length,  and  as  if  a  word  could  shiver  the  spell, 
men  and  woman  turned  silently  about  and  went 
down  the  hill.  When  they  reached  a  lower 
plane,  they  stopped  to  talk  a  little,  and  once 


290  TIVERTON   TALES 

indoors,  discussion  had  its  way.  Young  Nick 
and  Hattie  had  walked  side  by  side,  feeling 
that  the  eyes  of  the  town  were  on  them,  reading 
their  emblazoned  names.  But  Mary  marched 
behind  them,  solemnly  and  alone.  She  held 
her  head  very  high,  knowing  what  her  kins 
folk  thought :  that  gran'ther  had  disgraced 
them.  A  passionate  protest  rose  within  her. 

That  night,  everybody  watched  the  old 
house  in  the  shade  of  the  poplars,  to  see  if 
Nicholas  had  "lighted  up."  But  the  windows 
lay  dark,  and  little  Mary,  slipping  over  across 
the  orchard,  when  her  mother  thought  her 
safe  in  bed,  tried  the  door  in  vain.  She 
pushed  at  it  wildly,  and  then  ran  round  to  the 
front,  charging  against  the  sentinel  hollyhocks, 
and  letting  the  knocker  fall  with  a  desperate 
and  repeated  clang.  The  noise  she  had  her 
self  evoked  frightened  her  more  than  the  still 
ness,  and  she  fled  home  again,  crying  softly, 
and  pursued  by  all  the  unresponsive  presences 
of  night. 

For  weeks  Tiverton  lay  in  a  state  of  hushed 
expectancy  ;  one  miracle  seemed  to  promise 
another.  But  Nicholas  Oldfield's  house  was 
really  closed ;  the  windows  shone  blankly  at 
men  and  women  who  passed,  interrogating  it. 
Young  Nick  and  his  Hattie  had  nothing  to 
say,  after  Hattie's  one  unguarded  admission 
that  she  did  n't  know  what  possessed  father. 
The  village  felt  that  it  had  been  arraigned  be- 


THE    FLAT-IRON    LOT  291 

fore  some  high  tribunal,  only  to  be  found  lack 
ing.  It  had  an  irritated  conviction  that,  mean 
ing  no  harm,  it  should  not  have  been  dealt 
with  so  harshly  ;  and  was  even  moved  to  de 
clare  that,  if  Nicholas  Oldfield  knew  so  much 
about  what  was  past  and  gone,  he  need  n't 
have  waited  till  the  trump  o'  doom  to  say  so. 
But,  somehow,  the  affair  of  clock  and  bell 
could  not  be  at  once  revived,  and  a  vague  let 
ter  was  dispatched  to  the  prospective  donor 
stating  that,  in  regard  to  his  generous  offer, 
no  decision  could  at  the  moment  be  reached  ; 
the  town  was  too  busy  in  preparing  for  its 
celebration,  which  would  take  place  in  some 
thing  over  two  weeks  ;  after  that  the  ques 
tion  would  be  considered.  The  truth  was 
that,  at  the  bottom  of  each  heart,  still  lurked 
the  natural  cupidity  of  the  loyal  citizen  who 
will  not  see  his  town  denied  ;  but  side  by  side 
with  that  desire  for  the  march  of  progress, 
walked  the  spectre  of  Nicholas  Oldneld's  wrath. 
The  trembling  consciousness  prevailed  that  he 
might  at  any  moment  descend  again,  wrapped 
in  that  inexplicable  atmosphere  of  loftier 
meanings. 

Still,  Tiverton  was  glad  to  put  the  question 
by,  for  she  had  enough  to  do.  The  celebra 
tion  knocked  at  the  door,  and  no  one  was 
ready.  Only  Brad  Freeman,  always  behind 
hand,  save  at  some  momentary  exigency  of  rod 
or  gun,  was  fulfilling  the  prophecy  that  the 


292  TIVERTON   TALES 

last  shall  be  first.  For  he  had,  out  of  the 
spontaneity  of  genius,  elected  to  do  one  deed 
for  that  great  day,  and  his  work  was  all  but 
accomplished.  In  public  conclave  assembled 
to  discuss  the  parade,  he  had  offered  to  make 
an  elephant,  to  lead  the  van.  Tiverton  roared, 
and  then,  finding  him  gravely  silent,  remained, 
with  gaping  mouth,  to  hear  his  story.  It 
seemed,  then,  that  Brad  had  always  cherished 
one  dear  ambition.  He  would  fain  fashion 
an  elephant ;  and  having  never  heard  of 
Frankenstein,  he  lacked  anticipation  of  the 
dramatic  finale  likely  to  attend  a  meddling 
with  the  creative  powers.  He  did  not  confess, 
save  once  to  his  own  wife,  how  many  nights 
he  had  lain  awake,  in  their  little  dark  bed 
room,  planning  the  anatomy  of  the  eastern 
lord ;  he  simply  said  that  he  "wanted  to  make 
the  critter,"  and  he  thought  he  could  do  it. 
Immediately  the  town  gave  him  to  understand 
that  he  had  full  power  to  draw  upon  the  public 
treasury,  to  the  extent  of  one  elephant ;  and 
the  youth,  who  always  flocked  adoringly  about 
him,  intimated  that  they  were  with  him,  heart 
and  soul.  Thereupon,  in  Eli  Pike's  barn, 
selected  as  of  goodly  size,  creation  reveled, 
the  while  a  couple  of  men,  chosen  for  their 
true  eye  and  practiced  hand,  went  into  the 
woods,  and  chopped  down  two  beautiful  slen 
der  trees  for  tusks.  For  many  a  day  now,  the 
atmosphere  of  sacred  art  had  hung  about  that 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  293 

barn.  Brad  was  a  maker,  and  everybody  felt 
it.  Fired  by  no  tradition  of  the  horse  that 
went  to  the  undoing  of  Troy,  and  with  no  plan 
before  him,  he  set  his  framework  together, 
nailing  with  unerring  hand.  Did  he  need  a 
design,  he  who  had  brooded  over  his  bliss  these 
many  months  when  Tiverton  thought  he  was 
"jest  lazin'  round  ?  "  Nay,  it  was  to  be  "  all 
wrought  out  of  the  carver's  brain,"  and  the 
brain  was  ready. 

Often  have  I  wished  some  worthy  chronicler 
had  been  at  hand  when  Tiverton  sat  by  at 
the  making  of  the  elephant  ;  and  then  again 
I  have  realized  that,  though  the  atmosphere 
was  highly  charged,  it  may  have  been  void  of 
homely  talk.  For  this  was  a  serious  moment, 
and  even  when  Brad  gave  sandpaper  and  glass 
into  the  hands  of  Lothrop  Wilson,  the  cooper, 
bidding  him  smooth  and  polish  the  tusks,  there 
was  no  jealousy :  only  a  solemn  sense  that  Mr. 
Wilson  had  been  greatly  favored.  Brad's  wife 
sewed  together  a  dark  slate-colored  cambric, 
for  the  elephant's  hide,  and  wet  and  wrinkled 
it,  as  her  husband  bade  her,  for  the  shambling 
shoulders  and  flanks.  It  was  she  who  made  the 
ears,  from  a  pattern  cunningly  conceived ;  and 
she  stuffed  the  legs  with  fine  shavings  brought 
from  the  planing-mill  at  Sudleigh.  Then  there 
came  an  intoxicating  day  when  the  trunk  took 
shape,  the  glass-bottle  eyes  were  inserted,  and 
Brad  sprung  upon  a  breathless  world  his  one 


294  TIVERTON   TALES 

surprise.  Between  the  creature's  fore-legs,  he 
disclosed  an  opening,  saying  meantime  to  the 
smallest  Crane  boy,  — 

"  You  crawl  up  there  !  " 

The  Crane  boy  was  not  valiant,  but  he  rea 
soned  that  it  was  better  to  seek  an  unguessed 
fate  within  the  elephant  than  to  refuse  immor 
tal  glory.  Trembling,  he  crept  into  the  hole, 
and  was  eclipsed. 

"  Now  put  your  hand  up  an'  grip  that  rope 
that 's  hangin'  there,"  commanded  Brad. 
Perhaps  he,  too,  trembled  a  little.  The  heart 
beats  fast  when  we  approach  a  great  fruition. 

"  Pull  it !     Easy,  now  !  easy  !  " 

The  boy  pulled,  and  the  elephant  moved  his 
trunk.  He  stretched  it  out,  he  drew  it  in. 
Never  was  such  a  miracle  before.  And  Tiver- 
ton,  drunk  with  glory,  clapped  and  shouted 
until  the  women-folk  clutched  their  sunbon- 
nets  and  ran  to  see.  No  situation  since  the 
war  had  ever  excited  such  ferment.  Brad  was 
the  hero  of  his  town.  But  now  arose  a  natural 
rivalry,  the  reaction  from  great,  impersonal 
joy  in  noble  work.  What  lad,  on  that  final 
day,  should  ride  within  the  elephant,  and  move 
his  trunk  ?  The  Crane  boy  contended  passion 
ately  that  he  held  the  right  of  possession. 
Had  he  not  been  selected  first  ?  Others  wept 
at  home  and  argued  the  case  abroad,  until  it 
became  a  common  thing  to  see  two  young 
scions  of  Tiverton  grappling  in  dusty  roadways, 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  295 

or  stoning  each  other  from  afar.  The  public 
accommodated  itself  to  such  spectacles,  and 
grown-up  relatives,  when  they  came  upon  little 
sons  rolling  over  and  over,  or  sitting  trium 
phantly,  the  one  upon  another's  chest,  would 
only  remark,  as  they  gripped  two  shirt  collars, 
and  dragged  the  combatants  apart :  — 

"  Now,  what  do  you  want  to  act  so  for  ? 
Brad  '11  pick  out  the  one  he  thinks  best. 
He  's  got  the  say." 

In  vain  did  mothers  argue,  at  twilight  time, 
when  the  little  dusty  legs  in  overalls  were  still, 
and  stubbed  toes  did  their  last  wriggling  for 
the  day,  that  the  boy  who  moved  the  trunk 
could  not  possibly  see  the  rest  of  the  proces 
sion.  The  candidates,  to  a  boy,  rejected  that 
specious  plea. 

"  What  do  I  want  to  see  anything  for,  if  I 
can  jest  set  inside  that  elephant  ?  "  sobbed  the 
Crane  boy  angrily.  And  under  every  roof  the 
wail  was  repeated  in  many  keys. 

Meantime,  the  log  cabin  had  been  going 
steadily  up,  and  a  week  before  the  great  day, 
it  was  completed.  This  was  a  typical  scene- 
setting, —the  cabin  of  a  first  settler, -—and 
through  one  wild  leap  of  fancy  it  became  sud 
denly  and  dramatically  dignified. 

"  For  the  land's  sake  ! "  said  aunt  Lucindy, 
when  she  went  by  and  saw  it  standing,  in 
modest  worth,  "  ain't  they  goin'  to  do  anythin* 
with  it  ?  Jest  let  it  set  there  ?  Why  under 


296  TIVERTON   TALES 

the  sun  don't  they  have  a  party  of  Injuns 
tackle  it  ?  " 

The  woman  who  heard  repeated  the  remark 
as  a  sample  of  aunt  Lucindy's  desire  to  have 
everything  "  all  of  a  whew  ;  "  but  when  it  came 
to  the  ears  of  a  certain  young  man  who  had 
sat  brooding,  in  silent  emulation,  over  the  birth 
of  the  elephant,  he  rose,  with  fire  in  his  eye, 
and  went  to  seek  his  mates.  Indians  there 
should  be,  and  he,  by  right  of  first  desire, 
should  become  their  leader.  Thereupon,  tur 
key  feathers  came  into  great  demand,  and 
wattled  fowl,  once  glorious,  went  drooping  de 
jectedly  about,  while  maidens  sat  in  doorways 
sewing  wampum  and  leggings  for  their  favored 
swains.  The  first  rehearsal  of  this  aboriginal 
drama  was  not  an  entire  success,  because  the 
leader,  being  unimaginative  though  faithful, 
decreed  that  faces  should  be  blackened  with 
burnt  cork  ;  and  the  result  was  a  tribe  of  the 
African  race,  greatly  astonished  at  their  own 
appearance  in  the  family  mirror.  Then  the 
doctor  suggested  walnut  juice,  and  all  went 
conformably  again.  But  each  man  wanted  to 
be  an  Indian,  and  no  one  professed  himself 
willing  to  suffer  the  attack. 

"  I  '11  stay  in  the  cabin,  if  I  can  shoot,  an' 
drop  a  redskin  every  time,"  said  Dana  Harden 
stubbornly  ;  but  no  redskin  would  consent  to 
be  dropped,  and  naturally  no  settler  could 
yield.  It  would  ill  befit  that  glorious  day  to 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  297 

see  the  log  cabin  taken ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  what  loyal  citizen  could  allow  himself  to 
be  defeated,  even  as  a  skulking  redman,  at  the 
very  hour  of  Tiverton's  triumph  ?  For  a  time 
a  peaceful  solution  was  promised  by  the  doctor, 
who  proposed  that  a  party  of  settlers  on  horse 
back  should  come  to  the  rescue,  just  when  a 
settler's  wife,  within  the  cabin,  was  in  danger 
of  immolation.  That  seemed  logical  and  right, 
and  for  days  thereafter  young  men  on  aston 
ished  farm  horses  went  sweeping  down  Tiver- 
ton  Street,  alternately  pursuing  and  pursued, 
while  Isabel  North,  as  Priscilla,  the  Puritan 
maiden,  trembled  realistically  at  the  cabin  door. 
Just  why  she  was  to  be  Priscilla,  a  daughter 
of  Massachusetts,  Isabel  never  knew ;  the 
name  had  struck  the  popular  fancy,  and  she 
made  her  costume  accordingly.  But  one  day, 
when  young  Tiverton  was  galloping  about  the 
town,  to  the  sound  of  ecstatic  yells,  a  farmer 
drew  up  his  horse  to  inquire  :  — 

"Now  see  here!  there's  one  thing  that's 
got  to  be  settled.  When  the  day  comes,  who  's 
goin'  to  beat  ?  " 

An  Indian,  his  face  scarlet  with  much  sound, 
and  his  later  state  not  yet  apparent,  in  that 
his  wampum,  blanket,  and  horsehair  wig  lay 
at  home,  on  the  best-room  bed,  made  answer 
hoarsely,  "  We  be  !  " 

"  Not  by  a  long  chalk !  "  returned  the  other, 
and  the  settlers  growled  in  unison.  They  had 


298  TIVERTON   TALES 

all  a  patriot's  pride  in  upholding  white  blood 
against  red. 

"  Well,  by  gum !  then  you  can  look  out  for 
your  own  Injuns  !  "  returned  their  chief.  "  My 
last  gun  's  fired." 

Settlers  and  Indians  turned  sulkily  about ; 
they  rode  home  in  two  separate  factions,  and 
the  streets  were  stilled.  Isabel  North  went 
faithfully  on,  making  her  Priscilla  dress,  but 
it  seemed,  in  those  days,  as  if  she  might  re 
main  in  her  log  cabin,  unattacked  and  unde 
fended.  Tiverton  was  to  be  deprived  of  its 
one  dramatic  spectacle.  Young  men  met  one 
another  in  the  streets,  remarked  gloomily, 
"  How  are  ye  ? "  and  passed  by.  There  were 
no  more  curdling  yells  at  which  even  the  oxen 
lifted  their  dull  ears  ;  and  one  youth  went  so 
far  as  to  pack  his  Indian  suit  sadly  away  in 
the  garret,  as  a  jilted  girl  might  lay  aside  her 
wedding  gown.  It  was  a  sullen  and  all  but 
universal  feud. 

Now  in  all  this  time  two  prominent  citizens 
had  let  public  opinion  riot  as  it  would,  —  the 
minister  and  the  doctor.  The  minister,  a 
grave-faced,  brown-bearded  young  man,  had 
seen  fit  to  get  run  down,  and  have  an  attack 
of  slow  fever,  from  which  he  was  just  recover 
ing  ;  and  the  doctor  had  been  spending  most 
of  his  time  in  Saltash,  with  an  epidemic  of 
mumps.  But  the  mumps  subsided,  and  the 
minister  gained  strength ;  so,  being  public- 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  299 

spirited  men,  these  two  at  once  concerned 
themselves  in  village  affairs.  The  first  thing 
the  minister  did  was  to  call  on  Nicholas  Old- 
field,  and  Young  Nick's  Hattie  saw  him  ther$ 
knocking  at  the  front  door. 

"  Mary  !  Mary !  "  cried  she,  "  if  there  ain't, 
the  young  pa'son  over  to  your  grandpa's.  I 
dunno  when  anybody  's  called  there,  he  's  away 
so  much.  Like  as  not  he  's  heard  how  father 
carried  on  that  night,  an*  now  he's  got  out, 
he's  come  right  over,  first  thing,  to  tell  him 
what  folks  think." 

Mary  looked  up  from  the  serpentine  braid 
she  was  crocheting. 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  'd  better  not,"  she  threat 
ened.  And  her  mother,  absorbed  by  curiosity, 
contented  herself  with  the  reproof  implied  in 
a  shaken  head  and  pursed-up  lips. 

A  sad  and  curious  change  had  befallen  Mary. 
She  looked  older.  One  week  had  dimmed  her 
brightness,  and  little  puckers  between  her  eyes 
were  telling  a  story  of  anxious  care.  For  gran'- 
ther  had  been  home  without  her  seeing  him. 
Mary  felt  as  if  he  had  repudiated  the  town. 
She  knew  well  that  he  had  not  abandoned  her 
with  it,  but  she  could  guess  what  the  loss  of 
larger  issues  meant  to  him.  Young  Nick,  if 
he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  expressing  himself, 
would  have  said  that  father's  mad  was  still  up. 
Mary  knew  he  was  grieved,  and  she  grieved 
also.  She  had  not  expected  him  until  the  end 


300  TIVERTON   TALES 

of  the  week.  Then  watching  wistfully,  she  saw 
the  darkness  come,  and  knew  next  day  would 
bring  him  ;  but  the  next  day  it  was  the  same. 
One  placid  afternoon,  a  quick  thought  assailed 
her,  and  stained  her  cheek  with  crimson.  She 
laid  down  the  sheet  which  was  her  "stent" 
of  over-edge,  and  ran  with  flying  feet  to  the 
little  house.  Hanging  by  her  hands  upon  the 
sill  of  the  window  nearest  the  clock,  she  laid 
her  ear  to  the  glass.  The  clock  was  ticking 
serenely,  as  of  old.  Gran'ther  had  been  home 
to  wind  it.  So  he  had  come  in  the  night,  and 
slipped  away  again  in  silence  ! 

"  There  !  he  's  gi'n  it  up  !  "  cried  Hattie,  still 
watching  the  minister.  "  He  's  turnin*  down 
the  path.  My  land  !  he  's  headed  this  way. 
He 's  comin'  here.  You  beat  up  that  cushion, 
an'  throw  open  the  best-room  door.  My  soul ! 
if  your  grandpa's  goin*  to  set  the  whole  town 
by  the  ears,  I  wisht  he  'd  come  home  an'  fight 
his  own  battles  !  " 

Hattie  did  not  look  at  her  young  daughter  ; 
but  if  she  had  looked,  she  might  have  been 
amazed.  Mary  stood  firm  as  iron  ;  she  was 
more  than  ever  a  chip  o'  the  old  block. 

When  the  young  minister  had  somewhat 
weakly  climbed  the  two  front  steps,  he  elected 
not  to  sit  in  the  best  room,  for  he  was  a  little 
chilly,  and  would  like  the  sun.  Presently  he 
was  installed  in  the  new  cane-backed  rocker, 


THE    FLAT-IRON    LOT  301 

and  Mrs.  Oldfield  had  offered  him  some  currant 
wine. 

"  Though  I  dunno  's  you  would,"  said  she, 
anxiously  flaunting  a  principle  righteous  as  his 
own.  "  I  s'pose  you  're  teetotal." 

The  minister  would  not  have  wine,  and  he 
could  not  stay. 

"  I  've  really  come  on  business,"  said  he. 
"  Do  you  know  anything  about  Mr.  Oldfield  ?  " 

So  strong  was  the  family  conviction  that 
Nicholas  had  involved  them  in  disgrace,  that 
Mary  glanced  up  fiercely,  and  her  mother  gave 
an  apologetic  cough. 

"Well,"  said  Young  Nick's  Hattie,  "I 
dunno 's  I  know  anything  particular  about 
father." 

"  Where  is  he,  I  mean,"  asked  the  minister. 
"  I  want  to  see  him.  I  've  got  to." 

"Gran'ther's  gone  away,"  announced  Mary, 
looking  up  at  him  with  hot  and  loyal  eyes. 
"  We  don't  know  where."  Her  fingers  trem 
bled,  and  she  lost  her  stitch.  She  was  furi 
ous  with  herself  for  not  being  calmer.  It 
seemed  as  if  gran'ther  had  a  right  to  demand 
it  of  her.  The  minister  bent  his  brows  im 
patiently. 

"  Why,  I  depended  on  seeing  Mr.  Oldfield," 
said  he,  with  the  fractiousness  of  a  man  re 
cently  ill.  "This  sickness  of  mine  has  put 
me  back  tremendously.  I  Ve  got  to  make  the 
address,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I 


302  TIVERTON   TALES 

meant  to  read  town  records  and  hunt  up  old 
stories  ;  and  then  when  I  was  sick  I  thought, 
*  Never  mind  !  Mr.  Oldfield  will  have  it  all  at 
]iis  tongue's  end.'  And  now  he  is  n't  here, 
and  I  'm  all  at  sea  without  him." 

This  was  perhaps  the  first  time  that  Young 
Nick's  Hattie  had  ever  looked  upon  her  father's 
pursuits  with  anything  but  a  pitying  eye.  A 
frown  of  perplexity  grew  between  her  brows. 
Her  brain  ached  in  expanding.  Mary  leaned 
forward,  her  face  irradiated  with  pure  delight. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  she,  at  once  accepting  the 
minister  for  a  friend,  "gran'ther  could  tell  you, 
if  he  was  here.  He  knows  everything." 

"  You  see,"  continued  the  minister,  now  ad 
dressing  her,  "  there  are  facts  enough  that  are 
common  talk  about  the  town,  but  we  only  half 
know  them.  The  first  settlers  came  from 
Devon.  Well,  where  did  they  enter  the  town  ? 
From  which  point  ?  Sudleigh  side,  or  along  by 
the  river  ?  I  incline  to  the  river.  The  doctor 
says  it  would  be  a  fine  symbolic  thing  to  take 
the  procession  up  to  the  church  by  the  very 
way  the  first  settlers  came  in.  But  where  was 
it  ?  I  don't  know,  and  nobody  does,  unless 
it 's  Nicholas  Oldfield." 

Mary  folded  her  hands,  in  proud  composure. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  she,  "gran'ther  knows.  He 
could  tell  you,  if  he  was  here." 

"  I  should  like  to  inquire  what  makes  you  so 
certain,  Mary  Oldfield,"  asked  her  mother, 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  303 

with  the  natural  irritation  of  the  unprepared. 
"  I  should  like  to  know  how  father  's  got  hold 
of  things  pa'son  and  doctor  ain't  neither  of 
'em  heard  of  ? " 

"  Why,"  said  the  minister,  rising,  "  he 's 
simply  crammed  with  town  legends.  He  can 
repeat  them  by  the  yard.  He 's  a  local  histo 
rian.  But  then,  I  need  n't  tell  you  that ;  you 
know  what  an  untiring  student  he  has  been.'* 
And  he  went  away  thoughtful  and  discouraged, 
omitting,  as  Hattie  realized  with  awe,  to  offer 
prayer. 

Mary  stepped  joyously  about,  getting  supper 
and  singing  "  Hearken,  Ye  Sprightly  !  "  in  an 
exultant  voice  ;  but  her  mother  brooded.  It 
was  not  until  dusk,  when  the  three  sat  before 
the  clock-room  fire,  "  blazed  "  rather  for  com 
pany  than  warmth,  that  Young  Nick's  Hattie 
opened  her  mouth  and  spoke. 

"  Mary,"  said  she,  "  how  'd  you  find  out  your 
grandpa  was  such  great  shakes  ?" 

Mary  was  in  some  things  much  older  than 
her  mother.  She  answered  demurely,  "  I 
don't  know  as  I  can  say." 

"  Nick,"  continued  Hattie,  turning  to  her 
spouse,  "did  you  ever  hear  your  father  was 
smarter  'n  the  minister  an'  doctor  put  together, 
so  't  they  had  to  run  round  beseechin'  him  to 
tell  'em  how  to  act  ?  " 

Nicholas  knocked  his  pipe  against  the  and 
iron,  and  rose,  to  lay  it  carefully  on  the  shelf. 


304  TIVERTON   TALES 

"I  can't  say's  I  did,"  he  returned.  Then  he 
set  forth  for  Eli  Pike's  barn,  where  it  was 
customary  now  to  stand  about  the  elephant 
and  prophesy  what  Tiverton  might  become. 
As  for  Hattie,  realizing  how  little  light  she 
was  likely  to  borrow  from  those  who  were 
nearest  and  dearest  her,  she  remarked  that 
she  should  like  to  shake  them  both. 

The  next  day  began  a  new  and  exciting  era. 
It  was  bruited  abroad  that  the  presence  of 
Nicholas  Oldfield  was  necessary  for  the  success 
of  the  celebration  ;  and  now  young  men  but 
lately  engaged  in  unprofitable  warfare  rode 
madly  over  the  county  in  search  of  him.  They 
inquired  for  him  at  taverns ;  they  sought  him 
in  farmhouses  where  he  had  been  wont  to 
lodge.  He  gained  almost  the  terrible  notori 
ety  of  an  absconding  cashier ;  and  the  current 
issue  of  the  Sudleigh  "  Star  "  wore  a  flaming 
headline,  "  No  Trace  of  Mr.  Oldfield  Yet !  " 

Mary  at  first  waxed  merry  over  the  pursuit. 
She  knew  very  well  why  gran'ther  was  staying 
away ;  and  her  pride  grew  insolent  at  seeing 
him  sought  in  vain.  But  when  his  loss  flared 
out  at  her  in  sacred  print,  she  stared  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then,  after  that  wide-eyed,  piteous 
glance  at  the  possibilities  of  things,  walked 
with  a  firm  tread  to  her  little  room.  There 
she  knelt  down,  and  buried  her  face  in  the  bed, 
being  careful,  meanwhile,  not  to  rumple  the 
valance.  At  last  she  knew  the  truth ;  he  was 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  305 

dead,  and  village  gossip  seemed  a  small  thing 
in  comparison. 

It  would  have  been  difficult,  as  time  went 
on,  to  convince  the  rest  of  the  township  that 
Mr.  Oldfield  was  not  in  a  better  world. 

"They'd  ha'  found  him,  if  he  's  above 
ground,"  said  the  fathers,  full  of  faith  in  the 
detective  instinct  of  their  coursing  sons.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  sons  should  ride  so 
fast  and  far,  and  come  to  nothing.  "  Never 
was  known  to  go  out  o'  the  county,  an'  they  've 
rid  over  it  from  one  eend  to  t'other.  Must  ha* 
made  way  with  himself.  He  wa'n't  quite  right, 
that  time  he  tolled  the  bell." 

They  found  ominous  parallels  of  peddlers 
who  had  been  murdered  in  byways,  or  stuck  in 
swamps,  and  even  cited  a  Tivertonian,  of  low 
degree,  who  was  once  caught  beneath  the  chin 
by  a  clothes-line,  and  remained  there,  under 
the  impression  that  he  was  being  hanged,  until 
the  family  came  out  in  the  morning,  and  tilted 
him  the  other  way. 

"  But  then,"  they  added,  "  he  was  a  drinkin' 
man,  an'  Mr.  Oldfield  never  was  known  to 
touch  a  drop,  even  when  he  had  a  tight  cold." 

Dark  as  the  occasion  waxed,  what  with  feuds 
and  presentiments  of  ill,  there  was  some  casual 
comfort  in  rolling  this  new  tragedy  as  a  sweet 
morsel  under  the  tongue,  and  a  mournful  plea 
sure  in  referring  to  the  night  when  poor  Mr 
Oldfield  was  last  seen  alive.  So  time  went  on 


3o6  TIVERTON   TALES 

to  the  very  eve  of  the  celebration,  and  it  was 
as  well  that  the  celebration  had  never  been. 
For  kindly  as  Tiverton  proved  herself,  in  the 
main,  and  closely  welded  in  union  against  rival 
towns,  now  it  seemed  as  if  the  hand  of  every 
man  were  raised  against  his  brother.  Settlers 
and  Indians  were  still  implacable ;  neither 
would  ride,  save  each  might  slay  the  other. 
The  Crane  boy  tossed  in  bed,  swollen  to  the 
eyes  with  an  evil  tooth  ;  and  his  exulting  mates 
so  besieged  Brad  Freeman  for  preferment, 
that  even  that  philosopher's  patience  gave 
way,  and  he  said  he  'd  be  hanged  if  he  'd  take 
the  elephant  out  at  all,  if  there  was  going  to 
be  such  a  to-do  about  it.  Even  the  minister 
sulked,  though  he  wore  a  pretense  of  dignity ; 
for  he  had  concocted  a  short  address  with  very 
little  history  in  it,  and  that  all  hearsay,  and 
the  doctor  had  said  lightly,  looking  it  over, 
"  Well,  old  man,  not  much  of  it,  is  there  ?  But 
there's  enough  of  it,  such  as  it  is." 

It  was  in  vain  for  the  doctor  to  declare  that 
this  was  a  colloquialism  which  might  mean 
much  or  little,  as  you  chose  to  take  it.  The 
minister,  justly  hurt,  remarked  that,  when  a 
man  was  in  a  tight  place,  he  needed  the  sup 
port  of  his  friends,  if  he  had  any ;  and  the 
doctor  went  whistling  drearily  away,  conscious 
that  he  could  have  said  much  worse  about  the 
address,  without  doing  it  justice. 

The  only  earthly  circumstance  which  seemed 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  307 

to  be  fulfilling  its  duty  toward  Tiverton  was 
the  weather.  That  shone  seraph ically  bright. 
The  air  was  never  so  soft,  the  skies  were  never 
so  clear  and  far,  and  they  were  looking  down 
indulgently  on  all  this  earthly  turmoil  when, 
something  before  midnight,  on  the  fateful  eve, 
Nicholas  Oldfield  went  up  the  path  to  his  side- 
door,  and  stumbled  over  despairing  Mary  on 
the  step. 

"  What  under  the  heavens  "  —  he  began  ; 
but  Mary  precipitated  herself  upon  him,  and 
held  him  with  both  hands.  The  moral  tension, 
which  had  held  her  hopeless  and  rigid,  gave 
way.  She  was  sobbing  wildly. 

"  O  gran'ther  !  "  she  moaned,  over  and  over 
again.  "  O  gran'ther  !  " 

Nicholas  managed  somehow  to  get  the  door 
open  and  walk  in,  hampered  as  he  was  by  the 
clinging  arms  of  his  tall  girl.  Then  he  sat 
down  in  the  big  chair,  taking  Mary  there  too, 
and  stroked  her  cheek.  Perhaps  he  could 
hardly  have  done  it  in  the  light,  but  at  that 
moment  it  seemed  very  natural.  For  a  long 
time  neither  of  them  spoke.  Mary  had  no 
words,  and  it  may  be  that  Nicholas  could  not 
seek  for  them.  At  last  she  began,  catching 
her  breath  tremulously  :  — 

"  They  've  hunted  everywhere,  gran'ther. 
They  've  rode  all  over  the  county ;  and  after 
the  celebration,  they  're  going  to  —  dr —  drag 
the  pond ! " 


3o8  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  can  go  out  o'  the  county 
if  I  want  to,"  responded  Nicholas  calmly.  "  I 
come  across  a  sheet  in  them  rec'ids  that  told 
about  a  pewter  communion  set  over  to  Rocky 
Ridge,  an'  I  've  found  part  on  't  in  a  tavern 
there.  Who  put  'em  up  to  all  this  work? 
Your  father  ? " 

"No,"  sobbed  Mary.     "  The  minister." 

"  The  minister  ?     What 's  he  want  ?  " 

"  He 's  got  to  write  an  address,  and  he 
wants  you  to  tell  him  what  to  say." 

Then,  in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  a  slow 
smile  stole  over  Nicholas  Oldfield's  face,  but 
his  voice  remained  quite  grave. 

"  Does,  does  he  ? "  he  remarked.  "  Well,  he 
ain't  the  fust  pa'son  that 's  needed  a  lift ;  but 
he  's  the  fust  one  ever  I  knew  to  ask  for  it. 
I  've  got  nothin'  for  'em,  Mary.  I  come  home 
to  wind  up  the  clocks  ;  but  I  ain't  goin'  to 
stand  by  a  town  that  '11  swaller  a  Memory-o'- 
Me  timekeeper  an'  murder  the  old  bell.  You 
can  say  I  was  here,  an'  they  need  n't  go  to 
muddyin'  up  the  ponds  ;  but  as  to  their  doin's, 
they  can  carry  'em  out  as  they  may.  I  've  no 
part  nor  lot  in  'em." 

Mary,  in  the  weakness  of  her  kind,  was  wiser 
than  she  knew.  She  drew  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  clung  to  him  the  closer.  All 
this  talk  of  plots  and  counter-plots  seemed 
very  trivial  now  that  she  had  him  back  ;  and 
being  only  a  child,  wearied  with  care  and 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  309 

watching,  she  went  fast  asleep  on  his  shoulder. 
Nicholas  felt  tired  too  ;  but  he  thought  he  had 
only  dozed  a  little  when  he  opened  his  eyes  on 
a  gleam  of  morning,  and  saw  the  doctor  come 
striding  into  the  yard. 

"  Your  door 's  open  ! "  called  the  doctor. 
"  You  must  be  at  home  to  callers.  Morning, 
Mary  !  Either  of  you  sick  ?  " 

Mary,  abashed,  drew  herself  away,  and 
slipped  into  the  sitting-room,  a  hand  upon  her 
tumbled  hair  ;  the  doctor,  wise  in  his  honesty, 
slashed  at  the  situation  without  delay. 

"  See  here,  Mr.  Oldfield,"  said  he,  "  whether 
you've  slept  or  not,  you've  got  to  come  right 
over  to  parson's  with  me,  and  straighten  him 
out.  He  's  all  balled  up.  You  are  as  bad  as 
the  rest  of  us.  You  think  we  don't  know 
enough  to  refuse  a  clock  like  a  comic  valen 
tine,  and  you  think  we  don't  prize  that  old  bell. 
How  are  we  going  to  prize  things  if  nobody 
tells  us  anything  about  them  ?  And  here  's 
the  town  going  to  pieces  over  a  celebration 
it  hasn't  sense  enough  to  plan,  just  because 
you  're  so  obstinate.  Oh,  come  along  !  Hear 
that !  The  boys  are  begining  to  toot,  and  fire 
off  their  crackers,  and  Tiverton  's  going  to  the 
dogs,  and  Sudleigh '11  be  glad  of  it!  Come, 
Mr.  Oldfield,  come  along  !  " 

Nicholas  stood  quite  calmly  looking  through 
the  window  into  the  morning  dew  and  mist. 
He  wore  his  habitual  air  of  gentle  indifference, 


310  TIVERTON   TALES 

and  the  doctor  saw  in  him  those  everlasting 
hills  which  persuasion  may  not  climb.  Sud 
denly  there  was  a  rustling  from  the  other 
room,  and  Mary  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
standing  there  expectant.  Her  face  was  pink 
and  a  little  vague  from  sleep,  but  she  looked 
very  dear  and  good.  Though  Nicholas  had 
"  lost  himself  "  that  night,  he  had  kept  time 
for  thought ;  and  perhaps  he  realized  how 
precious  a  thing  it  is  to  lay  up  treasure  of  in 
heritance  for  one  who  loves  us,  and  is  truly 
of  our  kind.  He  turned  quite  meekly  to  the 
doctor. 

"  Should  you  think,"  he  inquired,  "  should 
you  think  pa'son  would  be  up  an'  dressed  ?  " 

Ten  minutes  thereafter,  the  two  were  knock 
ing  at  the  parson's  door. 

Confused  and  turbulent  as  Tiverton  had  be 
come,  Nicholas  Oldfield  settled  her  at  once. 
Knowledge  dripped  from  his  finger-ends  ;  he 
had  it  ready,  like  oil  to  give  a  clock.  Doctor 
and  minister  stood  breathless  while  he  laid  out 
the  track  for  the  procession  by  local  marks 
they  both  knew  well. 

"  They  must  ha'  come  into  the  town  from 
som'er's  nigh  the  old  cross-road,"  said  he. 
"  No,  't  wa'n't  where  they  made  the  river  road. 
Then  they  turned  straight  to  one  side  —  't  was 
thick  woods  then,  you  understand  —  an'  went 
up  a  little  ways  towards  Horn  o'  the  Moon. 
But  they  concluded  that  wouldn't  suit  'em, 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  311 

't  was  so  barren-like  ;  an'  they  wheeled  round, 
took  what 's  now  the  old  turnpike,  an'  dim' 
right  upTiverton  Hill,  through  Tiverton  Street 
that  now  is.  An'  there  "  —  Nicholas  Old- 
field's  eyes  burned  like  blue  flame,  and  again 
he  told  the  story  of  the  Flat-Iron  Lot. 

"Indeed!"  cried  the  parson.  "What  a 
truly  remarkable  circumstance!  We  might 
halt  on  that  very  spot,  and  offer  prayer,  before 
entering  the  church." 

"  'Pears  as  if  that  would  be  about  the  rights 
on  't,"  said  Nicholas  quietly.  "  That  is,  if  any 
body  wanted  to  plan  it  out  jest  as  't  was."  He 
could  free  his  words  from  the  pride  of  life,  but 
not  his  voice  ;  it  quivered  and  betrayed  him. 

"  Your  idea  would  be  to  have  the  services 
before  going  down  for  the  Indian  raid  ?  "  in 
quired  the  doctor.  "  They  're  all  at  logger 
heads  there." 

But  Nicholas,  hearing  how  neither  faction 
would  forego  its  glory,  had  the  remedy  ready 
in  a  cranny  of  his  brain. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  you  know  there  was  a  raid 
in  '53,  when  both  sides  gi'n  up  an'  run.  A 
crazed  creatur  on  a  white  horse  galloped  up 
an'  dispersed  'em.  He  was  all  wropped  up  in 
a  sheet,  and  carried  a  jack-o'-lantern  on  a  pole 
over  his  head,  so  't  he  seemed  more  'n  nine  feet 
high.  The  settlers  thought  't  was  a  spirit ;  an' 
as  for  the  Injuns,  Lord  knows  what  't  was  to 
them.  'T  any  rate,  the  raid  was  over." 


312  TIVERTON   TALES 

"  Heaven  be  praised  ! "  cried  the  doctor  fer 
vently.  "  Allah  is  great,  and  you,  Mr.  Old- 
field,  are  his  prophet.  Stay  here  and  coach 
the  parson  while  I  start  up  the  town." 

The  doctor  dashed  home  and  mounted  his 
horse.  It  was  said  that  he  did  some  tall  riding 
that  day.  From  door  to  door  he  galloped,  a 
lesser  Paul  Revere,  but  sowing  seeds  of  har 
mony.  It  was  true  that  the  soil  was  ready.  In 
dians  in  full  costume  were  lurking  down  cellar 
or  behind  kitchen  doors,  swearing  they  would 
never  ride,  but  tremblingly  eager  to  be  urged. 
Settlers,  gloomily  acquiescent  in  an  unjust  fate, 
brightened  at  his  heralding.  The  ghost  was 
the  thing.  It  took  the  popular  fancy  ;  and 
everybody  wondered,  as  after  all  illuminings  of 
genius,  why  nobody  had  thought  of  it  before. 
Brad  Freeman  was  unanimously  elected  to  act 
the  part,  as  the  only  living  man  likely  to  man 
age  a  supplementary  head  without  rehearsal ; 
and  Pillsbury's  white  colt  was  hastily  groomed 
for  the  onslaught.  Brad  had  at  once  seen  the 
possibilities  of  the  situation  and  decided,  with 
an  unerring  certainty,  that  as  a  jack-o'-lantern 
is  naught  by  day,  the  pumpkin  face  must  be 
cunningly  veiled.  He  was  a  busy  man  that 
morning ;  for  he  not  only  had  to  arrange  his 
own  ghostly  progress,  but  settle  the  elephant 
on  its  platform,  to  be  dragged  by  vine-wreathed 
oxen,  and  also,  at  the  doctor's  instigation,  to 
make  the  sledge  on  which  the  first  Nicholas 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  313 

Oldfield  should  draw  his  wife  into  town.  The 
doctor  sought  out  Young  Nick,  and  asked  him 
to  undertake  the  part,  as  tribute  to  his  illus 
trious  name ;  but  he  was  of  a  prudent  nature 
and  declined.  What  if  the  town  should  laugh ! 
"I  guess  I  won't,"  said  he. 

But  Mary,  regardless  of  maternal  cacklings, 
sped  after  the  doctor  as  he  turned  his  horse. 

"  O  doctor  ! "  she  besought,  "  let  me  be  the 
first  settler's  wife  !  Please,  please  let  me  be 
Mary  Oldfield !" 

The  doctor  was  glad  enough.  All  the  tides 
of  destiny  were  surging  his  way.  Even  when 
he  paused,  in  his  progress,  to  pull  the  Crane 
boy's  tooth,  it  seemed  to  work  out  public  har 
mony.  For  the  victim,  cannily  anxious  to 
prove  his  valor,  insisted  on  having  the  opera 
tion  conducted  before  the  front  window  ;  and 
after  it  was  accomplished,  the  squads  of  boys 
waiting  at  the  gate  for  his  apotheosis  or  down 
fall,  gave  an  unwilling  yet  delighted  yell.  He 
had  not  winced  ;  and  when,  with  the  fire  of  a 
dear  ambition  still  shining  in  his  eyes,  he  held 
up  the  tooth  to  them,  through  the  glass,  they 
realized  that  he,  and  he  only,  could  with  justice 
take  the  crown  of  that  most  glorious  day.  He 
must  ride  inside  the  elephant. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  when  the  procession 
wound  slowly  up  from  the  cross-road,  preceded 
by  the  elephant,  lifting  his  trunk  at  rhyth 
mic  intervals,  Nicholas  Oldfield  saw  his  little 


314  TIVERTON   TALES 

Mary,  her  eyes  shining  and  her  cheeks  aglow, 
sitting  proudly  upon  a  sledge,  drawn  by  the 
handsomest  young  man  in  town.  A  pang  may 
have  struck  the  old  man's  heart,  realizing  that 
Phil  Marden  was  so  splendid  in  his  strength, 
and  that  he  wore  so  sweet  a  look  of  invitation ; 
but  he  remembered  Mary's  vow  and  was  con 
tent.  A  great  pride  and  peace  enwrapped  him 
when  the  procession  halted  at  the  Flat-Iron 
Lot,  and  the  minister,  lifting  up  his  voice,  ex 
plained  to  the  townspeople  why  they  were 
called  upon  to  pause.  The  name  of  Oldfield 
sounded  clearly  on  the  air. 

"  Now,"  said  the  minister,  "  let  us  pray." 
The  petition  went  forth,  and  Mr.  Oldfield  stood 
brooding  there,  his  thoughts  running  back 
through  a  long  chain  of  ancestry  to  the  Al 
mighty,  Who  is  the  fount  of  all. 

When  heads  were  covered  again,  and  this 
little  world  began  to  surge  into  the  church, 
young  Nick's  Hattie  moved  closer  to  her  hus 
band  and  shot  out  a  sibilant  whisper  :  — 

"  Did  you  know  that  ?  —  about  the  Flat-iron 
Lot?" 

Young  Nick  shook  his  head.  He  was  en 
tirely  dazed. 

"Well,"  continued  Hattie,  full  of  awe,  "  I 
guess  I  never  was  nearer  my  end  than  when  I 
let  myself  be  go-between  for  Freeman  Henry. 
I  wonder  father  let  me  get  out  alive." 

The  minister's  address  was  very  short  and  un- 


THE   FLAT-IRON   LOT  315 

pretending.  He  dwelt  on  the  sacredness  of 
the  past,  and  all  its  memories,  and  closed  by 
saying  that,  while  we  need  not  shrink  from 
signs  of  progress,  we  should  guard  against 
tampering  with  those  ancient  landmarks  which 
serve  as  beacon  lights,  to  point  the  brighter 
way.  Hearing  that,  every  man  steeled  his 
heart  against  Memory-of-Me  clocks,  and  re 
solved  to  vote  against  them.  Then  the  minis 
ter  explained  that,  since  he  had  been  unable 
to  prepare  a  suitable  address,  Mr.  Oldfield  had 
kindly  consented  to  read  some  precious  records 
recently  discovered  by  him.  A  little  rustling 
breath  went  over  the  audience.  So  this  amia 
ble  lunacy  had  its  bearing  on  the  economy  of 
life  !  They  were  amazed,  as  may  befall  us  at 
any  judgment  day,  when  grays  are  strangely 
alchemized  to  white. 

Mr.  Oldfield,  unmoved  as  ever,  save  in  a  cer 
tain  dominating  quality  of  presence,  rose  and 
stood  before  them,  the  records  in  his  hands. 
He  read  them  firmly,  explaining  here  and  there, 
his  simple  speech  untouched  by  finer  usage  ; 
and  when  the  minister  interposed  a  question, 
he  dropped  into  such  quaintness  of  rich  le- 
gendry  that  his  hearers  sat  astounded.  So  they 
were  a  part  of  the  world  !  and  not  the  world 
to-day,  but  the  universe  in  its  making. 

It  was  long  before  Nicholas  concluded  ;  but 
the  time  seemed  brief.  He  sat  down,  and  the 
minister  took  the  floor.  He  thanked  Mr.  Old- 


3i6  TIVERTON   TALES 

field  and  then  went  on  to  say  that,  although  it 
might  be  informal,  he  would  suggest  that  the 
town,  with  Mr.  Oldfield's  permission,  place  an 
inscription  on  the  boulder  in  the  Flat-Iron 
Lot,  stating  why  it  was  to  be  held  historically 
sacred.  The  town  roared  and  stamped,  but 
meanwhile  Nicholas  Oldfield  was  quietly  rising. 

"  In  that  case,  pa'son,"  said  he,  "  I  should 
like  to  state  that  it  would  be  my  purpose  to 
make  over  that  lot  to  the  town  to  be  held  as 
public  land  forever." 

Again  the  village  folk  outdid  themselves  in 
applause,  while  Young  Nick  muttered,  "  Well, 
I  vum!"  beneath  his  breath,  and  Hattie  re 
plied,  antiphonally,  "  My  soul !  "  These  were 
not  the  notes  of  mere  surprise.  They  were 
prayers  for  guidance  in  this  exigency  of  finding 
a  despised  intelligence  exalted. 

The  celebration  went  on  to  a  victorious  close. 
Who  shall  sing  the  sweetness  of  Isabel  North, 
as  she  sat  by  the  log-cabin  door,  placidly  spin 
ning  flax,  or  the  horror  of  the  moment  when, 
redskins  swooping  down  on  her  and  settlers  on 
them,  the  ghost  swept  in  and  put  them  all  to 
flight  ?  Who  will  ever  forget  the  exercises  in 
the  hall,  when  the  "Suwanee  River"  was  sung 
by  minstrels,  to  a  set  of  tableaux  representing 
the  "  old  folks  "  at  their  cabin  door,  "  playin' 
wid  my  brudder  "  as  a  game  of  stick-knife,  and 
the  "  Swanny  "  River  itself  by  a  frieze  of  white 
pasteboard  swans  in  the  background  ?  There 


THE   FLAT-IRON    LOT  317 

were  patriotic  songs,  accompanied  by  remarks 
laudatory  of  England ;  since  it  was  justly  felt 
that  our  mother-land  might  be  wounded  if,  on 
an  occasion  of  this  sort,  we  fomented  interna 
tional  differences  by  "  America  "  or  the  reminis 
cent  triumph  of  "  The  Sword  of  Bunker  Hill." 
A  very  noble  sentiment  pervaded  Tiverton 
when,  at  twilight,  little  groups  of  tired  and 
very  happy  people  lingered  here  and  there  be 
fore  "  harnessing  up  "  and  betaking  themselves 
to  their  homes.  The  homes  themselves  meant 
more  to  them  now,  not  as  shelters,  but  as  sacred 
shrines  ;  and  many  a  glance  sought  out  Nicho 
las  Oldfield  standing  quietly  by  —  the  rever 
ential  glance  accorded  those  who  find  out  un 
suspected  wealth.  Young  Nick  approached 
his  father  with  an  awkwardness  sitting  more 
heavily  upon  him  than  usual. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  'm  mighty  glad  you  gi'n 
'em  that  lot." 

Old  Nicholas  nodded  gravely,  and  at  that 
moment  Hattie  came  up,  all  in  a  flutter. 

"  Father,"  said  she  quite  appealingly,  "  I 
wisht  you  'd  come  over  to  supper.  Luella  an* 
Freeman  Henry  '11  be  there.  It 's  a  great  day, 
an'  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  know  't  is,"  answered  Nicholas 
kindly.  "  I  'm  much  obleeged,  but  Mary 's 
goin'  to  eat  with  me.  Mebbe  we  might  look 
in,  along  in  the  evenin*.  Come,  Mary  !  " 

Mary,   very   sweet   in   her  plain  dress  and 


. 


3i8  TIVERTON  TALES 

white  kerchief,  was  talking  with  young  Harden, 
her  husband  for  the  day ;  but  she  turned  about 
contentedly. 

"  Yes,  gran'ther,"  said  she,  without  a  look 
behind,  "I  'm  coming !  " 


THE   END   OF  ALL   LIVING 

THE  First  Church  of  Tiverton  stands  on  a 
hill,  whence  it  overlooks  the  little  village,  with 
one  or  two  pine-shaded  neighborhoods  beyond, 
and,  when  the  air  is  clear,  a  thin  blue  line  of 
upland  delusively  like  the  sea.  Set  thus  aus 
terely  aloft,  it  seems  now  a  survival  of  the  day 
when  men  used  to  go  to  meeting  gun  in  hand,' 
and  when  one  stayed,  a  lookout  by  the  door,  \ 
to  watch  and  listen.  But  this  the  present 
dwellers  do  not  remember.  Conceding  not  a 
sigh  to  the  holy  and  strenuous  past,  they 
lament  —  and  the  more  as  they  grow  older  — 
the  stiff  climb  up  the  hill,  albeit  to  rest  in  so 
sweet  a  sanctuary  at  the  top.  For  it  is  sweet 
indeed.  A  soft  little  wind  seems  always  to  be 
stirring  there,  on  summer  Sundays  a  messen 
ger  of  good.  It  runs  whispering  about,  and 
wafts  in  all  sorts  of  odors  :  honey  of  the  milk 
weed  and  wild  rose,  and  a  Christmas  tang  of 
the  evergreens  just  below.  It  carries  away 
something,  too  —  scents  calculated  to  bewilder 
the  thrift-hunting  bee  :  sometimes  a  whiff  of 
peppermint  from  an  old  lady's  pew,  but  oftener 
the  breath  of  musk  and  southernwood,  gath 
ered  in  ancient  gardens,  and  borne  up  here  to 


320  TIVERTON   TALES 

embroider  the  preacher's  drowsy  homilies,  and 
remind  us,  when  we  faint,  of  the  keen  savor  of 
righteousness. 

Here  in  the  church  do  we  congregate  from 
week  to  week  ;  but  behind  it,  on  a  sloping 
I  hillside,  is  the  last  home  of  us  all,  the  old  bury- 
^  ing-ground,  overrun  with  a  briery  tangle,  and 
^relieved  by  Nature's  sweet  and  cunning  hand 
from  the  severe  decorum  set  ordinarily  about 
the  dead.  Our  very  faithlessness  has  made  it 
fair.  There  was  a  time  when  we  were  a  little 
ashamed  of  it.  We  regarded  it  with  affection, 
indeed,  but  affection  of  the  sort  accorded  some 
rusty  relative  who  has  lain  too  supine  in  the  rut 
of  years.  Thus,  with  growing  ambition  came, 
in  due  course,  the  project  of  a  new  bury  ing- 
ground.  This  we  dignified,  even  in  common 
speech ;  it  was  always  grandly  "  the  Ceme 
tery."  While  it  lay  unrealized  in  the  distance, 
the  home  of  our  forbears  fell  into  neglect,  and 
Nature  marched  in,  according  to  her  lavish- 
ness,  and  adorned  what  we  ignored.  The 
white  alder  crept  farther  and  farther  from  its 
bounds  ;  tansy  and  wild  rose  rioted  in  pro 
fusion,  and  soft  patches  of  violets  smiled  to 
meet  the  spring.  Here  were,  indeed,  great 
riches,  "a  little  of  everything  "  that  pasture 
life  affords :  a  hardy  bed  of  checkerberry, 
crimson  strawberries  nodding  on  long  stalks, 
and  in  one  sequestered  corner  the  beloved 
Linnasa.  It  seemed  a  consecrated  pasture 


THE   END   OF  ALL   LIVING  321 

shut  off  from  daily  use,  and  so  given  up  to 
pleasantness  that  you  could  scarcely  walk  there 
without  setting  foot  on  some  precious  out 
growth  of  the  spring,  or  pushing  aside  a  sum 
mer  loveliness  better  made  for  wear. 

Ambition  had  its  fulfillment.  We  bought 
our  Cemetery,  a  large,  green  tract,  quite  square, 
and  lying  open  to  the  sun.  But  our  pendulum 
had  swung  too  wide.  Like  many  folk  who 
suffer  from  one  discomfort,  we  had  gone  to 
the  utmost  extreme  and  courted  another.  We 
were  tired  of  climbing  hills,  and  so  we  pressed 
too  far  into  the  lowland  ;  and  the  first  grave 
dug  in  our  Cemetery  showed  three  inches  of 
water  at  the  bottom.  It  was  in  "  Prince's  new 
lot,"  and  there  his  young  daughter  was  to  lie. 
But  her  lover  had  stood  by  while  the  men  were 
making  the  grave  ;  and,  looking  into  the  ooze 
below,  he  woke  to  the  thought  of  her  fair 
young  body  there. 

"God!"  they  heard  him  say,  "she  sha'n't 
lay  so.  Leave  it  as  it  is,  an'  come  up  into 
the  old  buryin' -ground.  There 's  room  enough 
by  me." 

The  men,  all  mates  of  his,  stopped  work 
without  a  glance  and  followed  him ;  and  up 
there  in  the  dearer  shrine  her  place  was  made. 
The  father  said  but  a  word  at  her  changed 
estate.  Neighbors  had  hurried  in  to  bring 
him  the  news  ;  he  went  first  to  the  unfinished 
grave  in  the  Cemetery,  and  then  strode  up  the 


322  TIVERTON   TALES 

hill,  where  the  men  had  not  yet  done.  After 
watching  them  for  a  while  in  silence,  he 
turned  aside ;  but  he  came  back  to  drop  a 
trembling  hand  upon  the  lover's  arm. 

"  I  guess,"  he  said  miserably,  "  she  'd  full  as 
lieves  lay  here  by  you." 

And  she  will  be  quite  beside  him,  though, 
in  the  beaten  ways  of  earth,  others  have  come 
between.  For  years  he  lived  silently  and 
apart ;  but  when  his  mother  died,  and  he  and 
his  father  were  left  staring  at  the  dulled  em 
bers  of  life,  he  married  a  good  woman,  who 
perhaps  does  not  deify  early  dreams ;  yet  she 
is  tender  of  them,  and  at  the  death  of  her  own 
child  it  was  she  who  went  toiling  up  to  the 
graveyard,  to  see  that  its  little  place  did  not 
encroach  too  far.  She  gave  no  reason,  but  we 
all  knew  it  was  because  she  meant  to  let  her 
husband  lie  there  by  the  long-loved  guest. 

Naturally  enough,  after  this  incident  of  the 
forsaken  grave,  we  conceived  a  strange  horror 
of  the  new  Cemetery,  and  it  has  remained 
deserted  to  this  day.  It  is  nothing  but  a 
meadow  now,  with  that  one  little  grassy  hollow 
in  it  to  tell  a  piteous  tale,  It  is  mown  by  any 
farmer  who  chooses  to  take  it  for  a  price  ;  but 
we  regard  it  differently  from  any  other  plot  of 
ground.  It  is  "the  Cemetery,"  and  always 
will  be.  We  wonder  who  has  bought  the 
grass.  "  Eli 's  got  the  Cemetery  this  year," 
we  say.  And  sometimes  awe-stricken  little 


THE   END   OF   ALL   LIVING  323 

squads  of  school  children  lead  one  another 
there,  hand  in  hand,  to  look  at  the  grave  where 
Annie  Prince  was  going  to  be  buried  when 
her  beau  took  her  away.  They  never  seem 
to  connect  that  heart-broken  wraith  of  a  lover 
with  the  bent  farmer  who  goes  to  and  fro 
driving  the  cows.  He  wears  patched  overalls, 
and  has  sciatica  in  winter;  but  I  have  seen 
the  gleam  of  youth  awakened,  though  remotely, 
in  his  eyes.  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  quite 
forgets  ;  there  are  moments,  now  and  then,  at 
dusk  or  midnight,  all  his  for  poring  over  those 
dulled  pages  of  the  past. 

After  we  had  elected  to  abide  by  our  old 
home,  we  voted  an  enlargement  of  its  bounds ; 
and  thereby  hangs  a  tale  of  outlawed  revenge. 
Long  years  ago  "  old  Abe  Eaton  "  quarreled 
with  his  twin  brother,  and  vowed,  as  the  last 
fiat  of  an  eternal  divorce,  "  I  won't  be  buried 
in  the  same  yard  with  ye  !  " 

The  brother  died  first ;  and  because  he  lay 
within  a  little  knoll  beside  the  fence,  Abe  will 
fully  set  a  public  seal  on  that  iron  oath  by  pur 
chasing  a  strip  of  land  outside,  wherein  he 
should  himself  be  buried.  Thus  they  would 
rest  in  a  hollow  correspondence,  the  fence  be 
tween.  It  all  fell  out  as  he  ordained,  for  we  in 
Tiverton  are  cheerfully  willing  to  give  the  dead 
their  way.  Lax  enough  is  the  helpless  hand 
in  the  fictitious  stiffness  of  its  grasp ;  and  we 
are  not  the  people  to  deny  it  holding,  by  cour- 


324  TIVERTON   TALES 

tesy  at  least.  Soon  enough  does  the  sceptre 
of  mortality  crumble  and  fall.  So  Abe  was 
buried  according  to  his  wish.  But  when  neces 
sity  commanded  us  to  add  unto  ourselves  an 
other  acre,  we  took  in  his  grave  with  it,  and 
the  fence,  falling  into  decay,  was  never  re 
newed.  There  he  lies,  in  affectionate  decorum, 
beside  the  brother  he  hated  ;  and  thus  does  the 
greater  good  wipe  out  the  individual  wrong. 

So  now,  as  in  ancient  times,  we  toil  steeply 
up  here,  with  the  dead  upon  his  bier ;  for  not 
often  in  Tiverton  do  we  depend  on  that  un 
couth  monstrosity,  the  hearse.  It  is  not  that 
we  do  not  own  one,  —  a  rigid  box  of  that  name 
has  belonged  to  us  now  for  many  a  year ;  and 
when  Sudleigh  came  out  with  a  new  one, 
plumes,  trappings,  and  all,  we  broached  the 
idea  of  emulating  her.  But  the  project  fell 
through  after  Brad  Freeman's  contented  re 
mark  that  he  guessed  the  old  one  would  last 
us  out.  He  "  never  heard  no  complaint  from 
anybody  't  ever  rode  in  it."  That  placed  our 
last  journey  on  a  homely,  humorous  basis,  and 
we  smiled,  and  reflected  that  we  preferred  going 
up  the  hill  borne  by  friendly  hands,  with  the 
light  of  heaven  falling  on  our  coffin-lids. 

The  antiquary  would  set  much  store  by  our 
headstones,  did  he  ever  find  them  out.  Cer 
tain  of  them  are  very  ancient,  according  to  our 
ideas ;  for  they  came  over  from  England,  and 
are  now  fallen  into  the  gray  ness  of  age.  They 


THE   END   OF  ALL  LIVING  325 

are  woven  all  over  with  lichens,  and  the  black- 
berry  binds  them  fast.  Well,  too,  for  them ! 
They  need  the  grace  of  some  such  veiling;  for 
most  of  them  are  alive,  even  to  this  day,  with 
warning  skulls,  and  awful  cherubs  compounded 
of  bleak,  bald  faces  and  sparsely  feathered 
wings.  One  discovery,  made  there  on  a  sum 
mer  day,  has  not,  I  fancy,  been  duplicated  in 
another  New  England  town.  On  six  of  the 
larger  tombstones  are  carved,  below  the  grass 
level,  a  row  of  tiny  imps,  grinning  faces  and 
humanized  animals.  Whose  was  the  hand  that 
wrought?  The  Tivertonians  know  nothing 
about  it.  They  say  there  was  a  certain  old 
Veasey  who,  some  eighty  odd  years  ago,  used 
to  steal  into  the  graveyard  with  his  tools,  and 
there,  for  love,  scrape  the  mosses  from  the 
stones  and  chip  the  letters  clear.  He  liked  to 
draw,  "creatur's"  especially,  and  would  trace 
them  for  children  on  their  slates.  He  lived 
alone  in  a  little  house  long  since  fallen,  and  he 
would  eat  no  meat.  That  is  all  they  know  of 
him.  I  can  guess  but  one  thing  more:  that 
when  no  looker-on  was  by,  he  pushed  away 
the  grass,  and  wrote  his  little  jokes,  safe  in  the 
kindly  tolerance  of  the  dead.  This  was  the 
identical  soul  who  should,  in  good  old  days, 
have  been  carving  gargoyles  and  misereres  ; 
here  his  only  field  was  the  obscurity  of  Tiv- 
erton  churchyard,  his  only  monument  these 
grotesqueries  so  cunningly  concealed. 


326  TIVERTON   TALES 

We  have  epitaphs,  too,  —  all  our  own  as  yet, 
for  the  world  has  not  discovered  them.  One 
couple  lies  in  well-to-do  respectability  under  a 
tiny  monument  not  much  taller  than  the  con 
ventional  gravestone,  but  shaped  on  a  pre 
tentious  model. 

"  We  'd  ruther  have  it  nice,"  said  the  build 
ers,  "  even  if  there  ain't  much  of  it." 

These  were  Eliza  Harden  and  Peleg  her  hus 
band,  who  worked  from  sun  to  sun,  with  scant 
reward  save  that  of  pride  in  their  own  fore- 
handedness.  I  can  imagine  them  as  they  drove 
to  church  in  the  open  wagon,  a  couple  portent 
ously  large  and  prosperous :  their  one  child, 
Hannah,  sitting  between  them,  and  glancing 
about  her,  in  a  flickering,  intermittent  way,  at 
the  pleasant  holiday  world.  Hannah  was  no 
worker ;  she  liked  a  long  afternoon  in  the  sun, 
her  thin  little  hands  busied  about  nothing 
weightier  than  crochet ;  and  her  mother  re 
garded  her  with  a  horrified  patience,  as  one 
who  might  some  time  be  trusted  to  sow  all  her 
wild  oats  of  idleness.  The  well-mated  pair 
died  within  the  same  year,  and  it  was  Hannah 
who  composed  their  epitaph,  with  an  artistic 
accuracy,  but  a  defective  sense  of  rhyme  :  — 

"  Here  lies  Eliza 
She  was  a  striver 
Here  lies  Peleg 
He  was  a  select 
Man" 


THE   END   OF  ALL   LIVING  327 

We  townsfolk  found  something  haunting  and 
bewildering  in  the  lines  ;  they  drew,  and  yet 
they  baffled  us,  with  their  suggested  echoes 
luring  only  to  betray.  Hannah  never  wrote 
anything  else,  but  we  always  cherished  the 
belief  that  she  could  do  "  'most  anything  "  with 
words  and  their  possibilities.  Still,  we  ac 
cepted  her  one  crowning  achievement,  and 
never  urged  her  to  further  proof.  In  Ti  vert  on 
we  never  look  genius  in  the  mouth.  Nor  did 
Hannah  herself  propose  developing  her  gift. 
Relieved  from  the  spur  of  those  two  unquiet 
spirits  who  had  begotten  her,  she  settled  down 
to  sit  all  day  in  the  sun,  learning  new  patterns 
of  crochet ;  and  having  cheerfully  let  her  farm 
run  down,  she  died  at  last  in  a  placid  poverty. 

Then  there  was  Desire  Baker,  who  belonged 
to  the  era  of  colonial  hardship,  and  who,  through 
a  redundant  punctuation,  is  relegated  to  a  day 
still  more  remote.  For  some  stone-cutter, 
scornful  of  working  by  the  card,  or  born  with 
an  inordinate  taste  for  periods,  set  forth,  below 
her  obiit,  the  astounding  statement :  — 

"The  first  woman.  She  made  the  journey 
to  Boston.  By  stage." 

Here,  too,  are  the  ironies  whereof  departed 
life  is  prodigal.  This  is  the  tidy  lot  of  Peter 
Merrick,  who  had  a  desire  to  stand  well  with 
the  world,  in  leaving  it,  and  whose  purple  and 
fine  linen  were  embodied  in  the  pomp  of  death. 
He  was  a  cobbler,  and  he  put  his  small  savings 


328  TIVERTON   TALES 

together  to  erect  a  modest  monument  to  his 
own  memory.  Every  Sunday  he  visited  it, 
"  after  meetin',''  and  perhaps  his  day-dreams, 
as  he  sat  leather-aproned  on  his  bench,  were 
still  of  that  white  marble  idealism.  The  in 
scription  upon  it  was  full  of  significant  blanks  ; 
they  seemed  an  interrogation  of  the  destiny 
which  governs  man. 

"  Here  lies  Peter  Merrick "  ran  the  un 
finished  scroll,  "and  his  wife  who  died " 

But  ambitious  Peter  never  lay  there  at  all ; 
for  in  his  later  prime,  with  one  flash  of  sharp 
desire  to  see  the  world,  he  went  on  a  voyage 
to  the  Banks,  and  was  drowned.  And  his  wife  ? 
The  story  grows  somewhat  threadbare.  She 
summoned  his  step-brother  to  settle  the  estate, 
and  he,  a  marble-cutter  by  trade,  filled  in  the 
date  of  Peter's  death  with  letters  English  and 
illegible.  In  the  process  of  their  carving,  the 
widow  stood  by,  hands  folded  under  her  apron 
from  the  midsummer  sun.  The  two  got  excel 
lent  well  acquainted,  and  the  stone-cutter  pro 
longed  his  stay.  He  came  again  in  a  little  over 
a  year,  at  Thanksgiving  time,  and  they  were 
married.  Which  shows  that  nothing  is  certain 
in  life, — no,  not  the  proprieties  of  our  leaving 
it,  —  and  that  even  there  we  must  walk  softly, 
writing  no  boastful  legend  for  time  to  annul. 

At  one  period  a  certain  quatrain  had  a  great 
run  in  Tiverton  ;  it  was  the  epitaph  of  the  day. 
Noting  how  it  overspread  that  stony  soil,  you 


THE  END   OF  ALL  LIVING  329 

picture  to  yourself  the  modest  pride  of  its  com 
poser  ;  unless,  indeed,  it  had  been  copied  from 
an  older  inscription  in  an  English  yard,  and 
transplanted  through  the  heart  and  brain  of 
some  settler  whose  thoughts  were  ever  flitting 
back.  Thus  it  runs  in  decorous  metre  :  — 

"  Dear  husband,  now  my  life  is  passed, 
You  have  dearly  loved  me  to  the  last. 
Grieve  not  for  me,  but  pity  take 
On  my  dear  children  for  my  sake." 

But  one  sorrowing  widower  amended  it,  accord 
ing  to  his  wife's  direction,  so  that  it  bore  a  new 
and  significant  meaning.  He  was  charged  to 

"  pity  take 
On  my  dear  parent  for  my  sake." 

The  lesson  was  patent.  His  mother-in-law 
had  always  lived  with  him,  and  she  was  "  dif 
ficult."  Who  knows  how  keenly  the  sick  wo 
man's  mind  ran  on  the  possibilities  of  reef  and 
quicksand  for  the  alien  two  left  alone  without 
her  guiding  hand  ?  So  she  set  the  warning  of 
her  love  and  fear  to  be  no  more  forgotten  while 
she  herself  should  be  remembered. 

The  husband  was  a  silent  man.  He  said 
very  little  about  his  intentions ;  performance 
was  enough  for  him.  Therefore  it  happened 
that  his  "  parent,"  adopted  perforce,  knew  no 
thing  about  this'public  charge  until  she  came 
upon  it,  on  her  first  Sunday  visit,  surveying 
the  new  glory  of  the  stone.  The  story  goes 
that  she  stood  before  it,  a  square,  portentous 


330  TIVERTON   TALES 

figure  in  black  alpaca  and  warlike  mitts,  and 
that  she  uttered  these  irrevocable  words  :  — 

"  Pity  on  me  !  Well,  I  guess  he  won't !  I  '11 
go  to  the  poor-farm  fust ! " 

And  Monday  morning,  spite  of  his  loyal  dis 
suasions,  she  packed  her  "  blue  chist,"  and 
drove  off  to  a  far-away  cousin,  who  got  her 
"  nussin' "  to  do.  Another  lesson  from  the 
warning  finger  of  Death  :  let  what  was  life  not 
dream  that  it  can  sway  the  life  that  is,  after 
the  two  part  company. 

Not  always  were  mothers-in-law  such  break 
ers  of  the  peace.  There  is  a  story  in  Tiverton 
of  one  man  who  went  remorsefully  mad  after 
his  wife's  death,  and  whose  mind  dwelt  unceas 
ingly  on  the  things  he  had  denied  her.  These 
were  not  many,  yet  the  sum  seemed  to  him 
colossal.  It  piled  the  Ossa  of  his  grief.  Espe 
cially  did  he  writhe  under  the  remembrance  of 
certain  blue  dishes  she  had  desired  the  week 
before  her  sudden  death  ;  and  one  night,  driven 
by  an  insane  impulse  to  expiate  his  blindness, 
he  walked  to  town,  bought  them,  and  placed 
them  in  a  foolish  order  about  her  grave.  It 
was  a  puerile,  crazy  deed,  but  no  one  smiled, 
not  even  the  little  children  who  heard  of  it 
next  day,  on  the  way  home  from  school,  and 
went  trudging  up  there  to  see.  To  their  stir 
ring  minds  it  seemed  a  strange  departure  from 
the  comfortable  order  of  things,  chiefly  because 
their  elders  stood  about  with  furtive  glances  at 


THE   END   OF  ALL  LIVING  331 

one  another  and  murmurs  of  "  Poor  creatur' !  " 
But  one  man,  wiser  than  the  rest,  "  harnessed 
up,"  and  went  to  tell  the  dead  woman's  mo 
ther,  a  mile  away.  Jonas  was  "  shackled  ;  "  he 
might  "do  himself  a  mischief."  In  the  late 
afternoon,  the  guest  so  summoned  walked 
quietly  into  the  silent  house,  where  Jonas  sat 
by  the  window,  beating  one  hand  incessantly 
upon  the  sill,  and  staring  at  the  air.  His  sis 
ter,  also,  had  come ;  she  was  frightened,  how 
ever,  and  had  betaken  herself  to  the  bedroom, 
to  sob.  But  in  walked  this  little  plump,  soft- 
footed  woman,  with  her  banded  hair,  her  bene 
volent  spectacles,  and  her  atmosphere  of  calm. 

"  I  guess  I  '11  blaze  a  fire,  Jonas,"  said  she. 
"  You  step  out  an'  git  me  a  mite  o'  kindlhY." 

The  air  of  homely  living  enwrapped  him  once 
again,  and  mechanically,  with  the  inertia  of  old 
habit,  he  obeyed.  They  had  a  "  cup  o'  tea  " 
together ;  and  then,  when  the  dishes  were 
washed,  and  the  peaceful  twilight  began  to 
settle  down  upon  them  like  a  sifting  mist,  she 
drew  a  little  rocking  chair  to  the  window  where 
he  sat  opposite,  and  spoke. 

"  Jonas,"  said  she,  in  that  still  voice  which 
had  been  harmonized  by  the  experiences  of 
life,  "  arter  dark,  you  jest  go  up  an'  bring  home 
them  blue  dishes.  Mary  's  got  an  awful  lot  o' 
fun  in  her,  an'  if  she  ain't  laughin'  over  that, 
I  'm  beat.  Now,  Jonas,  you  do  it  !  Do  you 
s'pose  she  wants  them  nice  blue  pieces  out 


332  TIVERTON   TALES 

there  through  wind  an'  weather  ?  She  'd  ruther 
by  half  see  'em  on  the  parlor  cluzzet  shelves ; 
an'  if  you  '11  fetch  'em  home,  I  '11  scallop  some 
white  paper,  jest  as  she  liked,  an'  we  '11  set  'em 
up  there." 

Jonas  wakened  a  little  from  his  mental 
swoon.  Life  seemed  warmer,  more  tangible, 
again. 

"  Law,  do  go,"  said  the  mother  soothingly. 
"  She  don't  want  the  whole  township  tramplin* 
up  there  to  eye  over  her  chiny.  Make  her  as 
nervous  as  a  witch.  Here  's  the  ha'-bushel 
basket,  an'  some  paper  to  put  between  'em. 
You  go,  Jonas,  an'  I  '11  clear  off  the  shelves." 

So  Jonas,  whether  he  was  tired  of  guiding 
the  impulses  of  his  own  unquiet  mind,  or 
whether  he  had  become  a  child  again,  glad  to 
yield  to  the  maternal,  as  we  all  do  in  our  grief, 
took  the  basket  and  went.  He  stood  by,  still 
like  a  child,  while  this  comfortable  woman  put 
the  china  on  the  shelves,  speaking  warmly, 
as  she  worked,  of  the  pretty  curving  of  the 
cups,  and  her  belief  that  the  pitcher  was  "  one 
you  could  pour  out  of."  She  stayed  on  at  the 
house,  and  Jonas,  through  his  sickness  of  the 
mind,  lay  back  upon  her  soothing  will  as  a 
baby  lies  in  its  mother's  arms.  But  the  china 
was  never  used,  even  when  he  had  come  to  his 
normal  estate,  and  bought  and  sold  as  before. 
The  mother's  prescience  was  too  keen  for 
that. 


THE  END   OF   ALL   LIVING  333 

Here  in  this  ground  are  the  ambiguities  of 
life  carried  over  into  that  other  state,  its  pathos 
and  its  small  misunderstandings.  This  was  a 
much-married  man  whose  last  spouse  had  been 
a  triple  widow.  Even  to  him  the  situation 
proved  mathematically  complex,  and  the  sump 
tuous  stone  to  her  memory  bears  the  dizzying 
legend  that  "  Enoch  Nudd  who  erects  this 
stone  is  her  fourth  husband  and  his  fifth  wife." 
Perhaps  it  was  the  exigencies  of  space  which 
brought  about  this  amazing  elision  ;  but  surely, 
in  its  very  apparent  intention,  there  is  only 
a  modest  pride.  For  indubitably  the  much- 
married  may  plume  themselves  upon  being  also 
the  widely  sought.  If  it  is  the  crown  of  sex  to 
be  desired,  here  you  have  it,  under  seal  of  the 
civil  bond.  No  baseless,  windy  boasting  that 
"  I  might  an  if  I  would  !  "  Nay,  here  be  the 
marriage  ties  to  testify. 

In  this  pleasant,  weedy  corner  is  a  little 
white  stone,  not  so  long  erected.  "I  shall 
arise  in  thine  image,"  runs  the  inscription  ; 
and  reading  it,  you  shall  remember  that  the 
dust  within  belonged  to  a  little  hunchback,  who 
played  the  fiddle  divinely,  and  had  beseech 
ing  eyes.  With  that  cry  he  escaped  from  the 
marred  conditions  of  the  clay.  Here,  too  (for 
this  is  a  sort  of  bachelor  nook),  is  the  grave  of 
a  man  whom  we  unconsciously  thrust  into  a 
permanent  masquerade.  Years  and  years  ago 
he  broke  into  a  house,  —  an  unknown  felony  in 


134  TIVERTON  TALES 

our  quiet  limits,  —  and  was  incontinently  shot. 
The  burglar  lost  his  arm,  and  went  about  at 
first  under  a  cloud  of  disgrace  and  horror,  which 
became,  with  healing  of  the  public  conscience, 
a  veil  of  sympathy.  After  his  brief  imprison 
ment  indoors,  during  the  healing  of  the  muti 
lated  stump,  he  came  forth  among  us  again,  a 
man  sadder  and  wiser  in  that  he  had  learned 
how  slow  and  sure  may  be  the  road  to  wealth. 
He  had  sown  his  wild  oats  in  one  night's  fool 
ish  work,  and  now  he  settled  down  to  doing 
such  odd  jobs  as  he  might  with  one  hand.  We 
got  accustomed  to  his  loss.  Those  of  us  who 
were  children  when  it  happened  never  really 
discovered  that  it  was  disgrace  at  all ;  we 
called  it  misfortune,  and  no  one  said  us  nay. 
/Then  one  day  it  occurred  to  us  that  he  must 
have  been  shot  "  in  the  war,"  and  so,  all  un 
wittingly  to  himself,  the  silent  man  became  a 
hero.  We  accepted  him.  He  was  part  of  our 
poetic  time,  and  when  he  died,  we  held  him 
still  in  remembrance  among  those  who  fell 
worthily.  When  Decoration  Day  was  first  ob 
served  in  Tiverton,  one  of  us  thought  of  him, 
and  dropped  some  apple  blossoms  on  his  grave  ; 
and  so  it  had  its  posy  like  the  rest,  although  it 
bore  no  flag.  It  was  the  doctor  who  set  us 
right  there.  "  I  would  n't  do  that,"  he  said, 
withholding  the  hand  of  one  unthinking  child  ; 
and  she  took  back  her  flag.  But  she  left  the 
blossoms,  and,  being  fond  of  precedent,  we  still 


THE   END   OF  ALL   LIVING  335 

do  the  same  ;  unless  we  stop  to  think,  we  know 
not  why.  You  may  say  there  is  here  some 
perfidy  to  the  republic  and  the  honored  dead, 
or  at  least  some  laxity  of  morals.  We  are  lax, 
indeed,  but  possibly  that  is  why  we  are  so  kind. 
We  are  not  willing  to  "hurt  folks'  feelings" 
even  when  they  have  migrated  to  another  star  ; 
and  a  flower  more  or  less  from  the  overplus 
given  to  men  who  made  the  greater  choice  will 
do  no  harm,  tossed  to  one  whose  soul  may  be 
sitting,  like  Lazarus,  at  their  riches'  gate. 

But  of  all  these  fleeting  legends  made  to 
hold  the  soul  a  moment  on  its  way,  and  keep 
it  here  in  fickle  permanence,  one  is  more 
dramatic  than  all,  more  charged  with  power 
and  pathos.  Years  ago  there  came  into  Tiver- 
ton  an  unknown  man,  very  handsome,  showing 
the  marks  of  high  breeding,  and  yet  in  his 
bearing  strangely  solitary  and  remote.  He 
wore  a  cloak,  and  had  a  foreign  look.  He  came 
walking  into  the  town  one  night,  with  dust 
upon  his  shoes,  and  we  judged  that  he  had 
been  traveling  a  long  time.  He  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  one  who  was  not  nearly  at  his  jour 
ney's  end,  and  would  pass  through  the  village, 
continuing  on  a  longer  way.  He  glanced  at 
no  one,  but  we  all  stared  at  him.  He  seemed, 
though  we  had  not  the  words  to  put  it  so,  an 
exiled  prince.  He  went  straight  through  Tiver- 
ton  Street  until  he  came  to  the  parsonage  ;  and 
something  about  it  (perhaps  its  garden,  hot 


336  TIVERTON   TALES 

with  flowers,  larkspur,  coreopsis,  and  the  rest) 
detained  his  eye,  and  he  walked  in.  Next  day 
the  old  doctor  was  there  also  with  his  little 
black  case,  but  we  were  none  the  wiser  for 
that  ;  for  the  old  doctor  was  of  the  sort  who 
intrench  themselves  in  a  professional  reserve. 
You  might  draw  up  beside  the  road  to  ques 
tion  him,  but  you  could  as  well  deter  the  course 
of  nature.  He  would  give  the  roan  a  flick,  and 
his  sulky  would  flash  by. 

"  What 's  the  matter  with  so-and-so  ? "  would 
ask  a  mousing  neighbor. 

"  He 's  sick,"  ran  the  laconic  reply. 

"  Goin'  to  die  ?  "  one  daring  querist  ventured 
further. 

"  Some  time,"  said  the  doctor. 

But  though  he  assumed  a  right  to  combat 
thus  the  outer  world,  no  one  was  gentler  with 
a  sick  man  or  with  those  about  him  in  their 
grief.  To  the  latter  he  would  speak ;  but  he 
used  to  say  he  drew  his  line  at  second  cousins. 

Into  his  hands  and  the  true  old  parson's  fell 
the  stranger's  confidence,  if  confidence  it  were. 
He  may  have  died  solitary  and  unexplained  ; 
but  no  matter  what  he  said,  his  story  was  safe. 
In  a  week  he  was  carried  out  for  burial ;  and 
so  solemn  was  the  parson's  manner  as  he  spoke 
a  brief  service  over  him,  so  thrilling  his  enun 
ciation  of  the  words  "our  brother,"  that  we 
dared  not  even  ask  what  else  he  should  be 
called.  And  we  never  knew.  The  headstone, 


THE   END   OF  ALL  LIVING  337 

set  up  by  the  parson,  bore  the  words  "  Pec- 
cator  Maximus."  For  a  long  time  we  thought 
they  made  the  stranger's  name,  and  judged 
that  he  must  have  been  a  foreigner  ;  but  a  new 
schoolmistress  taught  us  otherwise.  It  was 
Latin,  she  said,  and  it  meant  "the  chiefest 
among  sinners."  When  that  report  flew  round, 
the  parson  got  wind  of  it,  and  then,  in  the  pul 
pit  one  morning,  he  announced  that  he  felt  it 
necessary  to  say  that  the  words  had  been  used 
"at  our  brother's  request,"  and  that  it  was  his 
own  decision  to  write  below  them,  "  For  this 
cause  came  I  into  the  world." 

We  have  accepted  the  stranger  as  we  accept 
many  things  in  Tiverton.  Parson  and  doctor 
kept  his  secret  well.  He  is  quite  safe  from  our 
questioning;  but  for  years  I  expected  a  lady, 
always  young  and  full  of  grief,  to  seek  out  his 
grave  and  shrive  him  with  her  tears.  She  will 
not  appear  now,  unless  she  come  as  an  old,  old 
woman,  to  lie  beside  him.  It  is  too  late. 

One  more  record  of  our  vanished  time,  — 
this  full  of  poesy  only,  and  the  pathos  of  fare 
well.  It  was  not  the  aged  and  heartsick  alone 
who  lay  down  here  to  rest.  We  have  been  no 
more  fortunate  than  others.  Youth  and  beauty 
came  also,  and  returned  no  more.  This,  where 
the  white  rose-bush  grows  untended,  was  the 
young  daughter  of  a  squire  in  far-off  days  :  too 
young  to  have  known  the  pangs  of  love  or  the 
sweet  desire  of  Death,  save  that,  in  primrose 


33»  TIVERTON   TALES 

time,  he  always  paints  himself  so  fair.  I  have 
thought  the  inscription  must  have  been  bor 
rowed  from  another  grave,  in  some  yard  shaded 
by  yews  and  silent  under  the  cawing  of  the 
rooks ;  perhaps,  from  its  stiffness,  translated 
from  a  stately  Latin  verse.  This  it  is,  snatched 
not  too  soon  from  oblivion  ;  for  a  few  more 
years  will  wear  it  quite  away :  — 

"  Here  lies  the  purple  flower  of  a  maid 
Having  to  envious  Death  due  tribute  paid. 
Her  sudden  Loss  her  Parents  did  lament, 
And  all  her  Friends  with  grief  their  hearts  did  Rent. 
Life  's  short.     Your  wicked  Lives  amend  with  care, 
For  Mortals  know  we  Dust  and  Shadows  are." 

"  The  purple  flower  of  a  maid  ! "  All  the 
blossomy  sweetness,  the  fragrant  lamenting  of 
Lycidas,  lies  in  that  one  line.  Alas,  poor  love 
lies-bleeding  !  And  yet  not  poor  according  to 
the  barren  pity  we  accord  the  dead,  but  dow 
ered  with  another  youth  set  like  a  crown  upon 
the  unstained  front  of  this.  Not  going  with 
sparse  blossoms  ripened  or  decayed,  but  heaped 
with  buds  and  dripping  over  in  perfume.  She 
seems  so  sweet  in  her  still  loveliness,  the  empty 
promise  of  her  balmy  spring,  that  for  a  mo 
ment  fain  are  you  to  snatch  her  back  into  the 
pageant  of  your  day.  Reading  that  phrase,  you 
feel  the  earth  is  poorer  for  her  loss.  And  yet 
not  so,  since  the  world  holds  other  greater 
worlds  as  well.  Elsewhere  she  may  have  grown 
to  age  and  stature ;  but  here  she  lives  yet  in 


THE   END   OF  ALL  LIVING  339 

beauteous  permanence,  —  as  true  a  part  of 
youth  and  joy  and  rapture  as  the  immortal  fig 
ures  on  the  Grecian  Urn.  While  she  was  but 
a  flying  phantom  on  the  frieze  of  time,  Death 
fixed  her  there  forever,  —  a  haunting  spirit  in 
perennial  bliss. 


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